HE OTHER SIDE 
OF THE HILL 

AND HOME AGAIN 



~. W. BOREHAM 





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THE OTHER SIDE OF 
THE HHJ. 



THE OTHER SIDE OF 
THE HILL 

AND HOME AGAIN 



rw. 



BY 

BOREHAM 



author of 

'faces in the fire," "mushrooms on the moor," "the 

golden milestone," "mountains in the mist," 

"the luggage of life," 

ETC., ETC. 




THE ABINGDON PRESS 
NEW YORK CINCINNATI 



,^^«^^ 



Copyright, 1917, by 
F. W. BOREHAM 



i 

NOV -5 1917 

©Ci,A47e963 



CONTENTS 
PART I 

CHAP. PAGB 

By Way of Introduction 7 

I. Swings and Round-Abouts 11 

II. The Ivied Porch 20 

III. The Enjoyment of Sorrow 30 

IV. The Other Side of the Hill 40 

V. On the Old Man's Trail 49 

VI. Sandy 58 

VII. The Enchanted Coat 67 

VIII. Companions of the Bush 76 

IX. The Man in the Moon 84 

PART II 

I. Forgetful Green 97 

II. I. O. U 105 

III. A Scrap of Paper 114 

IV. The Lattice Window 124 

V. Luxuriating Among Cowslips 133 

VI. A Chip of History 145 

VII. Maxims of the Mud 154 

VIII. Concerning Samuel Creggan 163 

IX. Punch and Judy 172 

X. Charades 180 

5 



6 CONTENTS 

PART III 

CHAP. PAGE 

I. "Millions! Millions! " 191 

II. White Elephants 200 

III. "That Will Do It! " 208 

rV. Anniversaries at Ebenezer 218 

V. The Ministry of Nonsense 

VI. The Grin 

VII. My Tobacco 247 

VIII. The Powder Magazine 255 

IX. The Benediction 267 



BY WAY OF INTRODUCTION 

For over twenty years I lived among the moun- 
tains. Their rugged summits saluted me every 
morning. Mountains are usually employed in 
literature as emblems of immutability. My own 
experience is quite otherwise. To me they were 
positively kaleidoscopic. I never saw a moun- 
tain look just the same two days running; whilst 
the fantastic changes that overtook them as I 
viewed them from different points of the com- 
pass were a perennial source of wonder and 
admiration. It was always worth while seeing 
the peak from the other side, even if that side 
were windswept, bleak, and bare. We might 
prefer the shelter of our own side ; but, when we 
returned, the view of the mountain from the 
dining-room window was always more satisfying 
because of our ability to supplement the scene 
from our newly acquired knowledge of the land 
beyond the ranges. 

In this book I have tried to see The Other Side 
of the Hill — and the other side of other things. 
We shall probably be glad to get home again and 

7 



8 BY WAY OF INTRODUCTION 

to resume our usual outlook; but we shall at 
least return to the old home with a new content, 
and, let us hope, with a few fresh landscapes in 
the picture-gallery of memory. 

FRANK W. BOREHAM. 
Armadale, Melbourne, Australia. 



PART I 



SWINGS AND ROUND-ABOUTS 

It was Regatta Day, There are few things in 
this old world more fascinating than a crowd on 
pleasure bent. On my left was the river — a glit- 
tering expanse of blue w^ater alive with craft of 
every size and kind. To my right, as far as eye 
could see, the green hills of the great domain 
were smothered by one vast, surging concourse 
of holiday-spirited humanity. Everybody was 
moving, and the effect was kaleidoscopic. The 
white blouses and waving gossamers of the 
women alternated with the more sombre appear- 
ance of the men. Hither and thither, children 
with gay ribbons and bright sashes danced and 
romped. In and out, like the flashing threads on 
the restless loom, the colours wove themselves 
into ever-changing patterns. The motley throng 
was broken up here and there by the tents and 
the booths, the Aunt Sallys and the side-shows. 
The seven wonders of the world were here! 
There could be no mistake about that. Brazen- 
throated showmen shouted it in a perfect frenzy 
of enthusiasm to the indifferent passer-by; and, 

11 



12 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

if any sceptics still doubted, the gaudy canvases 
which furnished the most realistic presentments 
of the prodigies to be seen within should have 
sufficed to brush away all such base suspicions. 
And here, too, were the swings and round- 
abouts! Oh, those swings and round-abouts! 
Will there ever appear upon this planet a sour- 
visaged generation for whom the swings and 
round-abouts will have no charm? As I caught 
the sounds of the wondrous organ, to the magic 
strains of which the wooden horses prance, I 
thought of Mr. Patrick R. Chalmers. It is one 
of life's great refreshments to have met Mr. 
Chalmers's cheery showman, with his merry eye 
and sunburnt face, his hungry lurcher and his 
brindled terrier pup, his painted caravan, and, 
above all, his swings and round-abouts, jogging 
down the dusty old English lane. 

*"Goo'-day/ said 'e; 'goo-day,' said I; 'an' 'ow d'you find 

things go, 
An' what's the chance o' millions when you runs a travellin' 

show?' 
'I find,' said 'e, 'things very much as *ow I've always 

found. 
For mostly they goes up and down, or else goes round and 

round.' 
Said 'e, 'The job's the very spit o' what it always were; 
It's bread and bacon mostly when the dog don't catch a 

*are; 
But lookin' at it broad, an' while it ain't no merchant king's. 
What's lost upon the round-abouts we pulls up on the 

swings.' " 



SWINGS AND KOUND-ABOUTS 13 

This, according to Mr. Chalmers, was the 
genial showman's philosophy. After the conver- 
sation in the lane, the caravan moved on once 
more. 

" 'E thumped upon the footboard, an* 'e lumbered on again. 
To meet a gold-dust sunset, down the owl-light in the lane ; 
For 'up and down an' round,' says *e, 'goes all appointed 

things. 
An' losses on the round-abouts means profits on the 

swings!'" 

Now this is worth thinking about. The show- 
man's philosophy must be taken to pieces, care- 
fully analysed and considered bit by bit. If it 
means anything, it means that there are two dis- 
tinct styles on which life may be lived. There is 
the style represented by the swings, and there is 
the style represented by the round-abouts. Some 
lives are all ups and downs, like the experience 
of the people on the swings. Others, again, are 
all round and round, like the experience of the 
people on the round-abouts. Or, perhaps, I shall 
get nearer to the heart of things if I say that life 
has to be lived sometimes on the principle of the 
swings and sometimes on the principle of the 
round-abouts. "Sometimes things goes up and 
down and sometimes round and round." 

As I sit here to-day, I look back on two sepa- 
rate years in my life's little story. The one was 
positively crowded with eventfulness. Some of 



14 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

the greatest triumphs and the most crushing dis- 
appointments of my life came to me in that year. 
In that year I tasted some of my sweetest joys 
and my bitterest sorrows. Everything was sen- 
sational. It was all ups and downs. It was a 
year on the swings. The other year was lived 
on an exactly opposite principle. From January 
to December nothing happened. I slept every 
night, for the whole three hundred and sixty-five 
nights, in the same bed. I preached every Sun- 
day for fifty-two Sundays in the same pulpit. I 
saw each day the same faces. I went each day 
the same accustomed round. There came to me 
that year no very great elation nor any over- 
w^helming grief. I was perfectly happy — as 
happy as the laughing children on the revolving 
wooden horses. But it was distinctly a year on 
the round-abouts. I suppose that we all have 
times when life treats us like the swings, and 
times when it behaves itself towards us just like 
the round-abouts. 

The only thing to do is to set the one over 
against the other. If you are tired of the round- 
abouts, remember the fun that you had on the 
swings, and think of the enjoyment that they 
will again afford you. Or if, on the other hand, 
your brain sickens with the violent movement 
of the swings, remember the pleasure that was 
yours on the round-abouts, and make up your 



SWINGS AND KOUND-ABOUTS 15 

mind that that satisfaction will soon be yours 
again. Most people, I fancy, prefer the swings. 
The showman in the lane hinted as much when 
he twice referred to the losses on the round- 
abouts and the profits on the swings. Obviously, 
the swings are the more popular. We love the 
thrill. You hold your breath as you soar sky- 
ward and the earth flies from you; your heart 
seems to rush to your mouth as you swoop 
towards the ground once more. You sail glori- 
ously forwards through the rushing air ; and the 
next moment you fall hopelessly backwards 
through a vacuum in space. It is a series of 
intoxicating sensations. Nobody who remem- 
bers the delirious joy of that sort of thing will 
wonder that the showman found that the swings 
paid him best. But it would never have done, 
merely on that account, to have travelled with 
swings only. People get tired of swings. They 
long for a change, and, longing for a change, 
they welcome the round-abouts. Life must be 
taken as a whole. It consists of swings and 
round-abouts. It is futile to cavil at the one and 
glorify the other. 

"For up an' down, an' round an* round, goes all appointed 

things. 
An' losses on the round-abouts means profit on the swings." 

That is the point. The swings and the round- 



16 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

abouts make up the one show. They are the sepa- 
rate parts of a complete whole. It is a waste of 
time to consider the one except in relation to the 
other. The swings belong to the round-abouts; 
and the round-abouts belong to the swings. 

Life is full of just such supplementary things. 
We are too fond of putting the swings in a class 
by themselves, and the round-abouts in a class 
by themselves, as though we were dividing the 
sheep from the goats. Then, having separated 
them, we proceed to compare them. We contrast 
the up-and-down movement of the swings with 
the round-and-round movement of the round- 
abouts. We magnify the pleasures of the one to 
the disparagement of the other, until there comes 
lumbering down the lane a rumbling old caravan, 
driven by a wise but swarthy philosopher who as- 
sures us that it would never, never do to travel 
the country either with swings alone or with 
round-abouts alone. You must have both swings 
and round-abouts. A fine instance of this sort of 
thing occurred in the middle of the eighteenth 
century. We were at the crisis of our fate. Great 
Britain was at war on three continents. In 
Europe, in India, and in America things were 
going heavily against us. Disaster abroad led 
to confusion at home. Riots broke out every- 
where, and the nation was for a moment entirely 
out of control. For eleven weeks England was 



SWINGS AND KOUND-ABOUTS 17 

without a responsible Ministry. And why? It 
was all a matter of round-abouts versus swings. 

One crowd cried, ^^Let Pitt he Minister F' 

The other crowd cried, ^^Let Neivcastle be Miu' 
isterr 

All England asked, ^^Shall it he Pitt or New- 
castle r 

And then some genius inquired, ^^Why not Pitt 
and Newcastle f^ 

Exactly ! Why ask whether it shall be swings 
or round-abouts? Why not swings and round- 
abouts? So England called Pitt and Newcastle 
together to save the nation. "And thus it was 
found,'' as Macaulay says, "that these two men, 
so unlike in character, so lately mortal enemies, 
were necessary to each other. Newcastle had 
fallen in November for want of that public confi- 
dence which Pitt possessed and of that parliamen- 
tary support which Pitt was better qualified 
than any man of his time to give. Pitt had fallen 
in April, for want of that species of influence 
which Newcastle had passed his whole life in 
acquiring and hoarding. Neither of them had 
power enough to support himself. Each of them 
had power enough to overturn the other. Their 
union would be irresistible.'' They united; and 
the combination proved the salvation of the 
country. It is so silly to be always setting the 
swings against the round-abouts and the round- 



18 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

abouts against the swings. The showman in the 
lane found that, by combining swings and round- 
abouts, he could make a decent living. 

For that is the beauty of it all. People talk 
glibly of the law of compensation. Emerson has 
an essay on the subject ; Paley has a lecture; and 
Miss Havergal has a poem. It is all very good 
so far as it goes, but it does not go far enough. 
If I lose a sovereign on Monday and find a sover- 
eign on Tuesday, I am compensated, it is true; 
but I am no better off. I cannot live on the gains 
made in the course of that profitless transaction. 
The showman in the lane was, Mr. Chalmers 
says, ^'si cheery cove and sunburnt,'' and with 
good reason. For there was something more 
than the law of compensation at work in his be- 
half. The profits on the swings not only compen- 
sated for the losses on the round-abouts, but the 
profits on the swings and the round-abouts as a 
whole gave him a clear surplus on which he 
could live without anxiety. The whole thing 
was a success, and it kept him smiling. That, I 
say, is the beauty of it. When I am able to strike 
life's balance-sheet; when I am able to reckon 
up all the losses I have sustained by going round- 
and-round, and the gains I have accumulated by 
all my ups-and-downs, I shall discover that the 
entire business has resulted in a profit far be- 
yond my dreams. I may sometimes have to run 



SWINGS AND KOUND-ABOUTS 19 

my round-abouts at a loss in order to attract 
patrons to my swings ; such a proceeding is quite 
common in every line of business. But, depend 
upon it, when I at last take my swings and my 
round-abouts as a whole, and make up the grand 
account, I shall find that I have not merely been 
compensated for my losses, but enriched beyond 
all thought. The showman who handles his 
swings and his round-abouts at all wisely will 
find the buttercups, the bluebells, and the haw- 
thorn in the lane looking lovelier every time he 
drives the caravan along it; and each time he 
comes his face W' ill have a cheerier smile and his 
soul will be singing a sweeter song. 



II 

THE IVIED PORCH 

1 AM no architect, and technical discussions 
affecting matters connected with that craft are 
not in mj line. But I came upon a matter to-day 
that greatly interested me. Should a house have 
a porch or should it not? What pictures the 
question calls to mind! The little country cot- 
tage by the side of the road, with its attics, its 
quaint projecting upper rooms, and its crazy 
lattice windows I And the porch — the pretty 
little porch — covered in nine cases out of ten 
with ivy or honeysuckle or tea-roses or Virginia- 
creeper I The porch is certainly one of the adorn- 
ments of the English countryside, and I do not 
wonder that the old folk are disinclined to see 
it vanish. For a writer in a London journal, 
whose article has driven my own pen to paper, 
tells us that it is largely a conflict between the 
older generation and the younger one. The new 
cottages now being erected have, it seems, no 
porch. The old people resent the omission. 
Some of their sweetest and most sacred mem- 

20 



THE IVIED PORCH 21 

ories cluster about the porch. In the porch, our 
writer explains, there is just room for a nice 
conversational party, four in all, two on either 
side. ^'The cottage porch is the summer fireside ; 
it is the inalienable perquisite of the father and 
mother and their cronies. The fate of England, 
and the rest of the world also, has many a time 
been settled in the crude wooden seats that jut 
out into the garden. Generations of families 
have peopled some of these porches, for in the old 
days good work was put into them, and solid 
timber was used." That is so. But it would be 
a mistake to suppose that all the associations 
connected with the porch had to do with those 
occasions when it was occupied by four. Even 
the oldest of the old people were young once, 
although you might not think so. And there 
were times in those days when the ivied or rose- 
covered porch was monopolized by two, and 
when any third comer would have felt instinc- 
tively that there was no room for him. The ivied 
porch is like Goldsmith's 

"... hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade. 
For talking age and whispering lovers made." 

The memories of the old folks may be failing; 
but they do not forget those honeyed hours. And 
it is because of such golden recollections in 
memory^s hallowed background that the thought 



22 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

of the porch is to them so instinct with the 
atmosphere of romance. 

Now this London writer who has had the mis- 
fortune to set me scribbling goes no farther than 
I have indicated. He deals purely and simply 
wdth the architectural aspect of the question. 
On the architectural phase of the matter I 
shall therefore have nothing to say. But the 
thing strikes me in quite another light. I under- 
take to show that this problem of porch or no- 
porch is one of the most characteristic, one of the 
most grave, and one of the most tragic problems 
of our modern life. 

The porch represented the old-fashioned way 
of approaching a thing. In passing through the 
porch you were entering the house gradually; 
in the absence of a porch you enter the house 
abruptly. The porch somehow appealed to your 
faculty for preparation. In the porch you in- 
voluntarily reminded yourself of the respect due 
to the people on whom you were calling, and you 
refreshed your mind as to the business that had 
brought you to their door. The porch created 
a certain atmosphere; and the creation of that 
atmosphere gave tone to the interview that fol- 
lowed. Now this fondness for paving the way 
was eminently characteristic of the generations 
that built those porches. Take down any old 
volume of lectures, speeches, addresses, or ser- 



THE IVIED PORCH 23 

mons. The first thing to strike you will be the 
elaborate introduction with w^hich the speaker 
led gradually up to his subject. What an ocean 
of words rolls turgidly between the first sentence 
and the first head I In the old days our fathers 
spent endless pains on the exordium. They were 
great believers in the prologue, the preamble 
and the preliminaries. They liked to get en 
rapport with their audiences before they began 
to grapple seriously with their themes. They 
liked a porch. But w^e have dispensed with the 
necessity for such formalities. We see no more 
need for a porch to a house than for a preface to 
a book; and has the twentieth century ever 
caught itself reading a preface? We demand 
that our orators shall plunge right away into 
the very heart of their subjects. There must be 
no beating about the bush; no hovering on the 
brink; no preparatory scrapings of the violin. 
If the joint is ready for carving, why w^aste time 
in toying with the knives and forks? The ornate 
and carefully rounded introductory periods, so 
dear to the heart of an eighteenth-century 
speaker or preacher, are like gravel in the teeth 
to a twentieth-century audience. They are rarely 
heard; and, when heard, are heard with ill-con- 
cealed impatience. 

The theme has its social implications. We 
boast, in our free-and-easy way, that we have 



24 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

dispensed with the need for an introduction. 
We speak to whom we will nowadays, without 
waiting to be formally introduced. It is good in 
its way. It may be that our grandfathers stood 
too much on ceremony. But it may also be that 
we have too lightly discarded the things that 
they valued. There is a place for the introduc- 
tion. The porch has its own utility. Mr. H. G. 
Wells, in his 'New MachiavelU, shows how w^e 
manage without it. *^One evening," his youthful 
hero says, *^I came by chance on a number of 
young people promenading by the light of a 
number of shops towards Beckington, and, with 
all the glory of a glowing cigarette between my 
lips, I joined their strolling number. These twi- 
light parades consisted mainly of shop appren- 
tices, workgirls, boy clerks, and so forth, stirred 
by mysterious intimations, spending their first- 
earned money upon collars and ties, chiffon hats, 
smart lace collars, walking-sticks, sunshades, or 
cigarettes, and coming valiantly into the vague 
transfiguring mingling of gaslight and evening 
to walk up and down, to eye meaningly, even to 
accost and make friends." Mr. Wells goes on to 
describe what happened. ^Two girls passed me. 
I half turned, and the shorter one glanced back 
over her shoulder. I was instantly passionately 
in love with her. I turned and followed them. 
I flung away my cigarette ostentatiously, lifted 



THE IVIED PORCH 25 

my school cap, and spoke to them. The girl an- 
swered shyly/' And so on. We have dispensed 
with the old-fashioned porch; we need no intro- 
ductions nowadays; but it is an open question 
as to whether or not we are the better for the 
change. 

Is it not by way of a porch that w^e enter into 
life itself? We do not burst suddenly out of the 
everywhere into here. There are long months 
during which we hover shyly on the threshold. 
It is a time full of mystery and wonder and 
fluttering anticipation on the part of those into 
whose home we are about to enter. What 
thoughtful preparations for our entrance are 
there going forward ! 

"Little caps in secret sewn. 
And hid in many a quiet nook." 

And what dream-faces haunt their fancy as they 
try to conjure up the likeness of the form they 
will so soon embrace ! The new-comer is in the 
porch ; and a fresh sacredness enters into life at 
the very thought of his entrance. It is part of 
life's deep and awful sanctity. 

And if this world is entered by way of a porch, 
so is the next. Let Longfellow explain : 

"There is no death! What seems so is transition. 
This life of mortal breath 
Is but the suburb of the life elysian 
Whose portal we call Death!" 



2G THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

All the best things are approached by way of 
porches. We enter our Sundays by way of our 
Saturdays ; and Saturday constitutes itself a kind 
of porch through which we pass into the golden 
day. Mark Rutherford tells us that, at the 
establishment kept by the Misses Ponsonby, it 
was the custom for one of the girls, at half-past 
nine precisely, to read aloud from a selected 
book. ^^On Saturday a book, not exactly re- 
ligious, but related to religion as nearly as pos- 
sible as Saturday is related to Sunday, was in- 
variably selected. On this particular Saturday 
it was Clarke's Travels in Palestine.^' And 
Robert Burns has cast a glory over our Satur- 
days for ever. If a day comes in which our 
classics are torn from us, we shall cling to the 
Cotter's Saturday Night until the very, very last. 
It is part of our priceless heritage. The picture 
it presents is one of the sweetest, strongest, and 
tenderest in our literature. The tired cotter 
putting away his plough with a sigh of grateful 
relief as he thinks of the whole day's rest in front 
of him ; the homeward trudge after a good week's 
work well done; the welcome from the bairnies 
playing by the gate ; the cheerful room ; the drop- 
ping in, one by one, of the elder children who 
have been away at work since Monday; the shy 
arrival of Jenny's bashful lover; the loud hum 
of eager conversation as they discuss the events 



THE IVIED PORCH 27 

of the week by the glowing fireside ; the bountiful 
supper so thoroughly enjoyed ; and the crowning 
act of family worship. 

"Then homeward all take off their several way; 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest: 
The parent pair their secret homage pay 

And proffer up to heaven the warm request 
That He who stills the raven's clam'rous nest. 

And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride. 
Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, 

For them and for their little ones provide; 
But, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside." 

It was thus that the devout cottager fashioned 
for himself and for his family a porch through 
which they might pass into the sanctities of the 
Sabbath. 

The subject has other applications. There is 
the important matter of religious conversation. 
It is a great art. There are few pleasures greater 
than a heart-to-heart talk with a kindred spirit 
on the greatest themes of all. And yet the pros- 
pects of so altogether profitable an experience 
may be ruined at the outset by a thoughtless or 
careless approach to the theme. An abrupt in- 
vasion of so sacred a realm is as unseemly as 
bursting into church with a run and a bound. 
We instinctively pause in the church porch and 
remind ourselves of the Majesty into whose 
august Presence we are about to enter. And, 
in the same way, there is a certain attitude of 



28 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

soul without which holy themes can never be 
suitably approached. "Mr. Garde w," we are 
told, "had a trick of starting subjects suddenly, 
and he very often made his friends very uncom- 
fortable by the precipitate introduction, without 
any warning, of remarks upon serious matters." 
Mr. Cardew may have his defenders; but on the 
whole I am certain that he would have been all 
the better for a porch. 

It may be possible to go to the other extreme. 
Mr. Spurgeon thought that, in Pilgrim's Prog- 
ress^ John Bunyan overdid the porch. The dis- 
tance from the City of Destruction to the Cross 
at which the pilgrim lost his burden w^as, Mr. 
Spurgeon thought, too great. There were too 
many preliminaries. "If," he says, "Bunyan 
meant to show what usually happens, he w^as 
right; but if he meant to show what ought to 
have happened, he was wrong." Bunyan was, 
of course, writing out of his own experience; 
and readers of Grace Abounding know that, in 
his own experience, he spent some time in the 
porch. A porch there must be. No man yet 
entered the kingdom of God without passing 
through some preliminary and preparatory ex- 
perience of penitence or desire. So far, beyond 
the shadow of a doubt, Bunyan was right; but 
so was his critic. The man whose desire for 
deliverance is as great as was Christian's when 



THE IVIED PORCH 29 

he set out on pilgrimage will be wise to make 
his way to the Cross with all possible speed. 
Into the porch every pilgrim must enter; but 
there is no need for a long sojourn there. The 
porch stands right against the door; and inside 
that door there awaits the pilgrim such a wel- 
come as his fondest fancy has never dared to 
imagine. 



Ill 

THE ENJOYMENT OF SORROW 

I WAS lounging in a cosy arm-chair among some 
cheerful companions by a friend's fireside the 
other evening when, looking up, my attention 
was arrested by a striking picture on the wall 
before me. It was a war picture, and a very sad 
one at that. It was entitled "The Tale of a 
Glorious End," by A. C. Michael. The most 
prominent figure is a young fellow in khaki, 
with his arm in a sling, who is telling of the 
engagement in which he himself was w^ounded, 
and in which his comrade fell. He is evidently 
in his comrade's home. A soldier's photograph 
stands on the table, and the wounded man has 
laid his companion's sword beside it. On the 
left hand of the picture is an arm-chair in which 
the bereft mother sits, convulsed in an agony of 
grief. Beside the chair, and with her arm upon 
it, is the lady's daughter, listening with tense 
and strained attention to the story of the 
brother's death. And beside her is her father, 
himself an old soldier. He is standing firm and 

30 



THE ENJOYMENT OF SORROW 31 

upright like an officer on parade. He is evi- 
dently struggling to avoid any display of emo- 
tion as he listens to the tale of his boy's last fatal 
stand. It is a sad, sad picture, and yet a 
strangely magnetic one; and during the evening 
I caught my glance again and again wandering 
off to once more inspect it. 

This picture of a cruel and crushing sorrow 
started a rather curious train of thought. Why 
had the artist, a man of taste, culture, and re- 
finement, chosen so mournful a theme? Is there 
not enough real sorrow in the world without 
adding to it such inventions of the imagination? 
And why had my friends bought and framed this 
pathetic picture? They are the very personifica- 
tion of gentleness and sympathy; what pleasure 
can they find in this vision of grief upon their 
wall? What deep and subtle philosophy under- 
lies this strange conjunction of ideas? I think 
I have a clue. 

It is one of the proudest boasts of Art that, in 
days when the nerves are overwrought and the 
emotions overcharged, it has a special mission 
of succour and relief. I was reading the other 
day a very fine book entitled The Origins of Art, 
by Dr. Yrjo Hirn, Professor of Aesthetic and 
Modern Literature at the University of Finland. 
The volume contains a most suggestive essay on 
"Art the Reliever," in the course of which the 



32 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

author claims that, by tempering and modifying 
the emotions, Art may render to public life a 
practical service the value of which it would be 
difficult to exaggerate. Strong feeling, he 
argued, is the natural enemy of clear thinking. 
Abnormal excitement or undue depression is 
a menace to well-regulated life and conduct. It 
is the peculiar province of Art, he goes on to 
show, to calm and restrain these tumultuous 
passions, and thus enable reason to resume her 
throne. Under the spell of Art, excessive joy 
should lose its defiant and barbaric character, 
whilst black despair should be dissolved into 
gentle sadness. Art moves among men. Pro- 
fessor Hirn declares, as Dionysos moved among 
his devotees, ennobling their joy and blunting 
the edge of their suffering. 

Here we are, then, living in a time of unprece- 
dented tragedy and sorrow. As I write, the War 
rages at the climax of its fury. Every day hun- 
dreds of homes pass through the terrible experi- 
ence portrayed in Mr. Michael's picture. And 
here, on the other hand, is Art, claiming that she 
holds in her keeping a special ministry of com- 
fort. At first blush it does not seem at all prob- 
able that this exalted claim can be substantiated. 
One has but to permit his memory to roam fancy- 
free through the art galleries that he has visited 
in days gone by in order to remind himself that 



THE ENJOYMENT OF SORROW 33 

the artist has taken an almost morbid delight 
in portraying the saddest and most heartrending 
episodes in human experience. Nobody can visit 
the Melbourne Art Gallery, for example, without 
being profoundly moved by pictures like "An- 
guish'' and "The Crisis." The former depicts 
the dumb agony of the sheep at her inability to 
save her frozen lamb from the encircling crows. 
The latter represents the awful suspense of a 
man who sits by the bedside of his apparently 
dying wife. The distinctly Australian pictures 
partake of the same character. The great paint- 
ing representing the return of the explorers, 
Burke and Wills, to the deserted camp at 
Cooper's Creek, and Mr. McCubbin's famous 
picture of "The Pioneer," are among the most 
saddening things that one could wish to see. At 
Sydney it is just the same. Sir Luke Fildes' 
masterpiece, "The Widower," in which the un- 
happy man is shown with his sick child on his 
knee, and a look of inexpressible helplessness on 
his face, is typical of many more. 

Now the time has come to face a crucial ques- 
tion. Art claims to be our comfort in days of 
sorrow and of weeping; yet Art gives us pictures 
that are themselves sorrowful, and that them- 
selves move us to tears I Has Art lost her way, 
or is there some deep significance in all this that 
does not lie upon the surface? Before we can 



34 THE OTHEE SIDE OF THE HILL 

solve this problem, we must ask yet one more 
question. It is this: Why are these pictures so 
popular? Why are the saddest pictures the 
greatest favourites? The tendency to portray 
excessive grief is not confined to that department 
of Art over which the painter presides. The 
novelist, the poet, the dramatist, and the musi- 
cian display the same propensity. More tears 
have been shed over the misfortunes of Oliver 
Twist and of Hetty Sorrel than over the miseries 
of any two characters in actual history; but we 
do not regard Charles Dickens and George Eliot 
as our tormentors on that account. We rather 
love them all the better for having caused us 
such superfluous grief. The most popular poems 
are the poems of sadness if not of melancholy. 
^^Enoch Arden" and "Dora" will always appeal 
to thousands who see no beauty in '^In Memo- 
riam" and ^^Maud." People who have care 
enough of their own will always crowd a theatre 
to share the poignant pathos of a great Shake- 
spearian tragedy. Kepresentations of acute 
mortal anguish such as marks the face of the 
^'Dying Gladiator" have ever been acknowledged 
as among the purest and most applauded 
triumphs of the sculptor's art. And the ear will 
always be conscious of a special charm that mys- 
teriously pervades the strains of plaintive music. 
Xow how are we to account for the pleasure 



THE ENJOYMENT OF SORROW 35 

that we undoubtedly derive from these realistic 
delineations of pain? It is not the rapture of 
revenge. We love, of course, to see Mr. Fagin 
hanged and Mr. Quilp drowned, because we had 
already learned most heartily to hate them. But 
why do we read again and again of the sufferings 
of Smike and the death of Little Nell? Nor 
can we attribute to callousness or cruelty this 
strange fondness of ours for the sorrowful side 
of Art. Historians declare that high-class Ro- 
mans used to dilate with the enthusiasm of con- 
noisseurs on the innumerable shades and vari- 
eties of anguish depicted on the countenances 
of the victims of the arena. But the most 
cursory investigation would reveal the fact that 
those who most delight in a tender and pathetic 
ballad, in a sad and mournful drama, or in a 
really affecting work of art, are by no means the 
most hardened and brutalized specimens of hu- 
manity. And what about my friends beside 
whose hospitable hearth I spent such happy 
hours the other night? Nothing would persuade 
me that it was some innate barbarism that led 
them to gloat over the anguish of the stricken 
family represented in Mr. Michael's picture. 
No; we must look in quite other directions for 
a solution of the problem, and we may find that 
the riddle is not really so hard to read as it at 
first appears. 



36 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

The fact is that, considered in the abstract, 
there is always a peculiar pleasure, and there- 
fore a peculiar consolation, in pain. If, by 
means of some phase of Art, you can take pain 
out of the internal world and transfer it to the 
external, if you can render it objective instead 
of subjective, it becomes instantly transformed 
into a thing of beauty and a joy for ever. All 
forms of wretchedness and misery, even our own, 
are really enjoyable from some point of view. 
The only trouble, of course, is to discover the 
precise standpoint from which the anguish must 
be surveyed, and it is just at this point that the 
artist comes to our assistance. Herbert Spencer 
once pointed out that even people who consider 
themselves to have been cruelly and unjustly 
treated derive an immense amount of happiness 
from the mental process of contemplating their 
own merits and contrasting their fate with their 
deserts. Is there not a pungent pleasure, pecul- 
iar to itself, in the nursing of a grievance? Is 
there no substratum of sound philosophy under- 
lying the feminine fondness for "a good cry"? 
And does not Time, by an alchemy of its own, 
transmute pain into an object of pleasurable 
contemplation? It is no uncommon thing to find 
a group of convalescents in a hospital ward pit- 
ting the tales of their recent sufferings one 
against another; and it is easy to see that each 



THE ENJOYMENT OF SORROW 37 

finds a peculiar satisfaction in recalling the 
agony that is now past. A well-known moun- 
taineer tells of the sickening sensations that 
swarmed through his brain as, missing his foot- 
hold on a frozen pass, he fell down the face of 
an Alpine glacier. But he adds that he has since 
derived so much enjoyment from repeatedly tell- 
ing the story of his misadventure that, taken as 
a whole, he has come to regard the incident as 
one of the most pleasant that have befallen him. 
Many a man who has risen from poverty to 
affluence is conscious of a pang of exquisite satis- 
faction as he reflects on the squalor of his earlier 
conditions. 

Those who have read George Gissing's beauti- 
ful book, The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft, 
will remember the contrast between the abject 
misery and grinding poverty of the early days, 
and the perfect happiness found amidst subse- 
quent circumstances of comfort and beauty. 
"Some day,'^ says Ryecroft, writing from his 
lovely home in Devonshire, "some day I will go 
to London and revisit all the places where I 
housed in the time of my greatest poverty. I 
have not seen them for a quarter of a century. 
Once I should have said that there were certain 
street names, certain mental images of obscure 
London, which would make me wretched as often 
as they came before me. Now I find that part of 



38 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

life interesting and pleasant to look back upon — 
greatly more so than many subsequent times, 
when I lived amid decencies and had enough to 
eat. Some day I will go to London and spend a 
day or two amid the dear old horrors." Goethe, 
too, has told us of the abject wretchedness that 
once almost drove him to a suicide's grave. He 
resolved, however, as an alternative, to write it 
all down and thus give it definite form and sub- 
stance. And when, afterwards, he picked it up, 
bound in boards, like a picture in its frame, he 
read and reread the story with an extraordinary 
glow of exultation. "Like a picture in its frame" 
— the simile is his own, and it brings us back to 
the point from which we set out. 

Here, then is the striking and suggestive fact, 
brought vividly and unmistakably before us, that 
life derives half its pleasure and more than half 
its consolation from its pain. And this reminds 
me of a conversation that took place in this very 
study of mine only a day or two ago. A young 
fellow called and expressed some astonishment 
that, in the pulpit, I laid such emphasis upon the 
Cross. "Is it not too sorrowful a theme for a 
world that has sorrow enough without it?" But 
is not the argument that I have just stated the 
most complete reply to such a question? Art 
relieves our overwrought nerves and comforts 
our aching hearts, not with pictures of gaiety. 



THE ENJOYMENT OF SORROW 39 

but with pictures of grief. Sorrow is mocked, 
not soothed, by laughter. And is not the effec- 
tive appeal of the Cross to the hearts of all men 
everywhere the best possible answer to my ques- 
tioner's inquiry? Little children sit spellbound 
beneath the pathos of that tender and tragic 
story. Old people turn back to it and quietly 
brush away their tears. The dying cling to it 
long after all other narratives have lost their 
charm. And strong men, bearing the burden 
and heat of the day, find in it a marvellous incen- 
tive to goodness and a matchless spur to courage. 
It fits the human heart as a key fits its lock. 
Here, if anywhere, is Art the Reliever ; the high- 
est, holiest art; the art of which all other art is 
but a faint shadow and a dim reflection. The 
same principle holds steadily all through. 

"O Cross, that liftest up my head, 

I dare not ask to fly from thee; 
I lay in dust life's glory dead. 
And from the ground there blossoms red 
Life that shall endless be." 

It is from pictures of pain that a pain-racked 
world derives comfort and courage. It is from 
the dereliction and darkness of the Cross that 
the world draws strength and hope and the life 
that knows no ending. 



IV 

THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

"But what is on the other side of the hilW 

That was the question. That is always the 
question. Mj friend and I had been spinning 
along in the car, the towering mountain and the 
shining harbour behind us, whilst each bend in 
the road presented us with a fresh unfolding of 
the ceaseless panorama of woodland, pasture, 
and stream. We were bound for nowhere, and 
so far as we could see the road led there. We 
were out for the pure sake of being out. All at 
once a sense of chilliness crept over us, and we 
were reminded that even the wealthiest days be- 
come bankrupt at last. Should we turn round 
and go home? There was only one objection. 
Right ahead of us lay a long range of hills. They 
had attracted our attention a few hours earlier 
as we sat under a big tree by the side of the road 
enjoying an al-fresco lunch. During the after- 
noon their massive forms had crept nearer and 
nearer, as the car had sped swiftly towards them. 
They captivated our fancy and lured us on. 
There was something taunting and challenging 
about them. 

40 



THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 41 

"Shall we turn round and go home?" 
"But what is on the other side of the hill?" 
That, I say, is the question. It is the oldest 
question in the world and the greatest question 
in the world. All the pathos and the tragedy of 
the ages are crammed into it. It was the first 
question that man asked ; it will be the last that 
he will try to answer. Wherever on this planet 
you find a man, you find him with eyes turned 
wistfully towards the distant ranges, repeating 
to himself again and yet again the old, old ques- 
tion, "The hill ! The other side of the hill ! What 
is on the other side of the hill ?" 

That is how history and geography — and 
everything else — came to be. The first man, toil- 
ing amidst his weedy pastures, earned his bread 
in the sweat of his brow. But often, in the cool 
of the evening, he sat outside his primitive dwell- 
ing and pointed away to the hill tops that here 
and there broke the skyline. "I wonder," he said 
a hundred times to his companion, "I wonder 
what is on the other side of the hill I" It never 
fell to his happy lot to sweep with delighted eye 
the valleys that stretched out beyond those 
ranges ; but his sons and his grandsons conquered 
those tantalizing heights. They went out, north, 
south, east, and west; climbed one range and 
caught sight of, another ; were lured on and on — 
always by the old, old question; wandered be- 



42 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

yond reach of each other; lost touch with the 
old home ; settled here and settled there ; and so 
your tribes, your races, your nations, and your 
empires came to be. It was the other side of the 
hill that did it. 

And if it was the other side of the hill that 
made them, it was also the other side of the hill 
that made them great. For the great peoples 
have been the exploring peoples ; and what is ex- 
ploration but an attempt to discover the land 
that lies on the other side of the hill? Here, in 
Australia, explorations began with the conquest 
of the Blue Mountains. Settlement was con- 
fined to a narrow strip of land on the far east 
of the continent. And there, to the west, were 
the hills. And every evening, as shepherds and 
squatters watched the sun set over those huge, 
rugged peaks, they itched to discover what lay 
beyond the ranges. Again and again they at- 
tempted to solve the eternal secret; again and 
again they were baulked and defeated. Then 
came that never-to-be-forgotten day, a hundred 
years ago, when Blaxland, Lawson, and Went- 
worth crossed the mountains. They found that 
a great continent with fertile valleys, spreading 
plains, and rolling prairies lay on the other side 
of the hill. And on that memorable day the his- 
tory of Australia began. 

It has been so everywhere. What was the 



THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 43 

opening up of America but the constant desire to 
discover what was on the other side of the hill? 
Think of that great moment — only twenty-one 
years after the epoch-making voyage of Colum- 
bus — when Vasco Nunez de Balboa 

"With eagle eye 
First stared at the Pacific — and all his men 
Looked at each other with a wild surmise. 
Silent upon a peak in Darien." 

Why the "wild surmise''? Simply because 
they had found an ocean without looking for it ! 
They were not searching for the Pacific; they 
were simply trying to find out what was on the 
other side of the hill ! That was all. 

Yes, that was all ; and yet, after all, it is a fine 
thing to know what is on the other side of the 
hill. Who can read the fiery theological con- 
troversies of days gone by without wishing that 
each of the angry disputants had been able to 
peep over the brow of the ridge? Think of the 
language with which Luther and Calvin assailed 
each other ! Think even of the correspondence of 
Wesley and Toplady. Wesley, the greatest 
evangelical force that England has ever known, 
wrote of the author of "Rock of Ages," "Mr. 
Augustus Toplady I know well; but I do not 
fight with chimney-sweeps. He is too dirty a 
writer for me to meddle with ; I should only foul 



44 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

my fingers. '^ Toplady was quite capable of repay- 
ing the founder of Methodism in his own coin. 
Wesley, he declared, was a hatcher of blasphe- 
mies; his forehead was impervious to a blush; 
he had perpetrated upon the public a known, a 
wilful, and a palpable lie! But it is too bad of 
me to drag these amenities of eighteenth-century 
controversy from the dust that has so long cov- 
ered them. Let me bury them again at once ; and 
let us remember Wesley only as the greatest 
spiritual force in the making of modern England, 
and let us remember Toplady only as the author 
of our favourite hymn. 

For, after all, what do these angry sentences 
prove? They only prove that, for a little season, 
neither Wesley nor Toplady was able to see 
what was on the other side of the hill. I never 
read a newspaper controversy, or listen to a 
heated debate, without feeling that. It is so 
obvious that each of the disputants is standing 
on his own side of the hill, shouting at his oppo- 
nent over the ridge that separates them. 

"The bush consists principally of wattle P' cries 
A., looking around him at the swaying tassels of 
gold. 

"I tell you that the bush consists principally 
of gum!" replies B., as he hears the flapping of 
the great strips of bark on every side. 

"It is wattled cries A. 



THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 45 

"It is gumr cries B. 

"You're distorting the facts I'' shrieks A. 

"You are telling lies I" returns B. And so the 
quarrel goes on; both A. and B. getting hotter 
and angrier as it proceeds. But anybody who 
stands on the ridge, looking down into both 
valleys, can see that both are right. On A.'s side 
the soil and the general conditions favour the 
growth of the wattle, and the wattle undoubtedly 
predominates. Just over the hill, the eucalyptus 
is in its element, and, as a consequence, the blue- 
gum reigns without a rival there. If only A. 
and B. could each have taken a peep over the 
hilltop ! If only Calvin could have seen things 
as they presented themselves to the eye of 
Luther ; and if only Luther could have looked at 
the universe from Calvin's standpoint! If only 
Wesley could have taken Toplady by the arm, 
and they could have walked together first to the 
one side of the hill and then to the other! If 
only all our controversialists could be convinced 
of the very obvious truth that a peak is the meet- 
ing-place of two separate valleys! But alas, 
alas ; it is very difficult. So many people seem to 
suppose that a hilltop crowns one valley and one 
valley only. So few are willing to see what 
grows on the other side of the hill. 

And yet, for the matter of that, every man 
knows what is on the other side of the hill. Im- 



46 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

mensity is on the other side of the hilL Infinity 
is on the other side of the hill. From my door- 
step to the hilltop is a matter of a mile or two 
at the most; but who can measure in miles the 
land that lies on the other side of the hill? Be- 
tween me and the hills lie a cluster of farms; 
but all the continents and oceans lie over the 
ranges — on the other side of the hill. Therein 
lies the consecration and the glory of the Church. 
On a pinnacle in South America, at the very 
summit of a lofty range of mountains, an im- 
mense statue of Jesus was recently placed. There 
is a deeper significance in the incident than the 
sculptors themselves saw. For Christ is always 
on the hilltops pointing His Church to the im- 
mensities beyond. The Church has always in- 
clined towards parochialism; she has contented 
herself with those few miles that lie between her- 
self and the distant foothills. But the Master 
has stood ever on the sunlit summit pointing to 
the infinities beyond. It is the story of Kipling's 
"Explorer" : 

"There's no sense in going further — it's the edge of cultiva- 
tion! 
So they said, and I believed it — broke my land and 
sowed my crop- 
Built my barns and strung my fences on the little border 
station. 
Tucked away below the foothills where the trails run 
out and stop. 



THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 47 

Till a voice, as bad as conscience, rang interminable 
changes, 
On one everlasting whisper, day and night repeated — so : 
'Something hidden! Go and find it! Go and look behind 
the ranges! 
Something lost behind the ranges! Lost, and waiting for 
you— GO!'" 

"Go,'' said the Master. "Go ye into all the 
world." In that tremendous "Go," the Church 
has caught a glimpse of the other side of the hill, 
and has herself been saved from narrowness by 
the discovery. 

Yes, immensity and infinity are on the other 
side of the hill. Immensity and Infinity — and 
Eternity. That is why the pilgrims of the ages 
have been struggling with bleeding feet up those 
precipitous slopes. They hoped that, from the 
summit, they might catch one satisfying glimpse 
of the Beyond. Sages and savages alike have 
gazed with awe at the hilltops, wondering what 
lay on the other side. No tribe or people has 
ever been discovered but in some tent or wigwam 
or kraal there dwelt some priest or fakir or medi- 
cine-man who guessed and muttered of the things 
on the other side of the hill. Oh, the witchery 
and the mystery of the other side of the hill ! Oh, 
the lure and the fascination of the other side of 
the hill ! There is, I say, a deeper significance in 
that South American statue than its constructors 
imagined. For Jesus stands on the hilltop. He 



48 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

sees what is on our side of the hill, and He sees 
what is on the other. And, since He knows, I 
need no fakir, no guesser, no medicine-man. He 
has brought life and immortality to light through 
the gospel. And there He stands ! And so long 
as He commands that eminence, there is no terror 
for me on either side of the hill. 



ON THE OLD MAN'S TRAIL 

"This woman/' said Greatheart to Gaius, "is the 
wife of one Christian, a pilgrim of former times, 
and these are his four children. The boys take 
all after their father, and covet to tread in his 
steps. Yea, if they do but see any place where 
the old Pilgrim hath lain, or any print of his 
foot, it ministereth joy to their hearts, and they 
covet to lie or tread in the same." I always think 
of that as one of the most charming and affecting 
passages in the whole of Bunyan's wonderful 
allegory. "7/ they see any place where the old 
pilgrim hath lain, or any print of his foot, it 
ministereth joy to their hearts, and they covet 
to lie or tread in the same/' 

Now I believe this sentence of Bunyan's to be 
the best, and most searching, and most illuminat- 
ing exposition of a striking question of Paul's. 
It occurs in the course of one of his most stately 
and majestic arguments. In the range of that 
magnificent and monumental passage, some por- 
tion of which is read at every Christian burial, 
the vision of the apostle seems to sweep all 

49 



50 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

worlds. Nothing is beyond Ms ken. And he 
abruptly asks, ^^What shall they do who are bap- 
tized for the deadr' Now it is a thousand pities 
that we should allow this radiant and pregnant 
phrase to drift among the barren sands and shal- 
low pools of ecclesiastical debate and theological 
controversy. We must find a place for it in the 
warm atmosphere of our happiest and most 
evangelistic ministries. The setting is sp ex- 
quisitely simple. Paul always felt very acutely 
that he was a late arrival. He has just said that 
he came afterwards ^^as one born out of due 
time." The romantic day seemed past. He had 
never companied with Jesus. Perhaps he never 
saw, except in vision, the Saviour's face. He was 
distinctly and emphatically representative of a 
new generation. But he sees that there is room 
for heroism still. He is determined that the 
second generation shall be worthy of its prede- 
cessor. He himself remembers vividly, and with 
a shudder, the death of Stephen. He stood by, 
consenting, perhaps even applauding. He feels 
now that that unforgettable revelation on the 
road to Damascus was a call to perpetuate the 
splendid testimony of those heroic spirits who 
had fallen — some of them at his own hands. He 
has been baptized for the dead. Paul was bap- 
tized for the dead Stephen, as later on Timothy 
was baptized for the dead Paul. And so the 



ON THE OLD MAN'S TRAIL 51 

world goes on. God buries His workmen, but 
carries on His work. 

The fact is that the principle enshrined in this 
neglected text is the divine answer to one of the 
deepest and most tender cravings of which hu- 
manity is capable. It is akin to a man's yearning 
for a child of his own body, a woman's silent and 
unutterable longing for motherhood. This old 
world of ours holds nothing more truly and 
intensely pathetic than a dying man's anxiety 
about the perpetuation of his life-work. George 
Eliot has twice portrayed this hunger of the soul 
with a very delicate and tender touch. Who can 
read Romola and not be affected by the scenes 
between the blind old philosopher, Bardo, and 
his vigorous young son, Dino? The aged thinker 
feels life literally oozing out of him. Every day 
his body is more frail, his mind less acute. But 
he delights in the manly strength of Dino, and 
rejoices in the fond hope that his son will take 
up the glorious task when at last he lays it down. 
And the agonizing climax of the old man's grief 
is reached when Dino repudiates the charge, and 
leaves his father to die without a successor. It 
is hard for the standard-bearer to feel the steel 
of the foe, and to know that there is no other 
hand to seize the flag as it falls from his dying 
grasp. Again, in Daniel Deronda we have all felt 
the exultation of the aged Jew who could not 



52 THE OTHEK SIDE OF THE HILL 

contain his delight that Daniel T\ould echo his 
voice and continue his work after he was gone. 
Yes; it is a great thing for Stephen to have his 
Saul, for Paul to have his Timothy, for the dying 
man, as he turns his face to the wall, to feel that 
another has been baptized on his behalf. It is 
good for a man to make his will, to leave all his 
affairs in perfect order, to die with no anxiety 
concerning things in this world or in any other. 
But surely that man can greet the angel of Death 
with a radiant face who can point to another — 
youthful, virile, enthusiastic — who will grasp the 
tools as they fall from wornout hands and carry 
the good work to perfect completion. That man 
rears his own immortality w^ho prudently toils 
to raise up to himself, whilst his sun is high in 
the heavens, spiritual successors whose voices 
will be heard when his sun has set for the last 
time. 

Now a great spirit often does his best work, 
not in his own proper person, but by means of 
the disciples who rise up to succeed him and 
carry on his w^ork. The eighteenth century, for 
example, was dominated by three very remark- 
able men — Immanuel Kant, Samuel Johnson, 
and John Wesley. We owe very much, of course, 
to the work done by each of them; but we owe 
still more to the influence which they exerted 
over their disciples and successors. After the 



OK THE OLD MAN'S TRAIL 53 

death of Kant we had a great philosophical re- 
vival ; after the death of Johnson we had a great 
literary revival; and after the death of Wesley 
we had a great religious revival. Johnson died 
in 1784 ; Wesley died in 1791 ; Kant died in 1804. 
Immediately upon the death of Kant, we have 
the work of Hegel and Schopenhauer, of Schleier- 
macher and Herbart, of Goethe and Schelling, of 
Thomas Brown and Jeremy Bentham, of Sir 
Thomas Mackintosh and Sir William Hamilton, 
of Johann Fichte and of many others. In the same 
way, Dr. Johnson was scarcely buried when there 
arose Coleridge and Wordsworth, Southey and 
Lamb, Sir Walter Scott and Thomas Moore, 
James Hogg and Lord Byron, George Crabbe and 
Percy Shelley, Thomas Campbell and Walter 
Savage Landor, Leigh Hunt and John Keats. 
These, and a host of contemporaries, form a 
galaxy of literary brilliance unequalled in Eng- 
lish story. It is no wonder that when, not long 
after the death of Johnson, the poet-laureate 
died, the Government of the day was embar- 
rassed by its wealth of riches and knew not whom 
to appoint. Of John Wesley exactly the same 
may be said, save that in his case it would be 
futile to mention names. Strictly speaking, 
Wesley was a childless old man when he died; 
yet we all know that the sons of John Wesley 
form a host that no man can number. In each 



54 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

case we are reminded that a really colossal per- 
sonality often wields a more widespread, if less 
dramatic, influence through the instrumentality 
of the disciples who succeed him than is possible 
to his single individuality. 

And, of course, looking at the matter the other 
way, it is an equally fine thing for a man, with 
his life all before him, to accept a sacred charge 
from dying lips. A thought like this was surely 
surging in the mind of Abraham Lincoln when 
he dedicated the battlefield of Gettysburg as a 
place of public burial. "We cannot dedicate, 
we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this 
ground," he said. "The brave men who struggled 
here have consecrated it far beyond our power 
to add or detract. It is for us, the living, rather 
to be dedicated to the unfinished work which they 
who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. 
It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the 
great task remaining before us, that from these 
honoured dead we may take increased devotion 
to that cause for which they gave the last full 
measure of devotion. Let us here highly resolve 
that these dead shall not have died in vain." It 
would be very difficult indeed to find a finer 
exposition of PauFs famous phrase. 

Two missionary records occur to me, each of 
which strikingly illustrates my theme. We have 
just celebrated the centenary of the opening of 



ON THE OLD MAN'S TRAIL 55 

Baptist mission work in the West Indies — a mis- 
sion that will always be associated with the 
historic name of William Knibb. But we can 
never forget the extraordinary way in which 
William Knibb became the apostle of Jamaica. . 
William Knibb's father had two sons — Thomas 
and William.' Thomas left Kettering to be ap- 
prenticed to Mr. Fuller, the friend of Carey, and, 
catching his missionary enthusiasm, he after- 
wards sailed for Jamaica. He landed in Janu- 
ary, 1823, and died within three months. When 
the melancholy tidings reached home, William, 
the younger brother was so impressed by the 
.pathos of it all that he begged to be allowed to 
go in his brother's place and finish his brother's 
work. And thus William Knibb was baptized 
for his dead brother, and became the heroic mis- 
sionary of that oppressed people and the breaker 
of their chains. Similarly, in the great days when 
Dr. Thomas Chalmers was arousing the Church 
of Scotland to her duty in respect of the heathen 
world, a young man named John Urquhart was 
powerfully affected by the burning passion and 
resistless logic of the great professor's plea. He 
volunteered to carry the gospel to India, but 
died before effect could be given to his noble 
resolve. He had a bosom friend, however, one 
Alexander Duff. They were as brothers. Duff 
had never thought seriously of missions, but he 



56 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

was profoundly moved by the spectacle of Ms 
friend's lofty design and its tragic frustration. 
He hurried home, told his parents what had hap- 
pened, and asked permission to take up Urqu- 
hart's cloak. Consent was given, and Duff went 
to India in Urquhart's place. He left a name 
w^hich must be fragrant for evermore. He was 
baptized for his dead friend. 
! Now it does seem to me that, without descend- 
ing to anything that might even appear maudlin 
or merely sentimental, we have here the ground- 
work for a very effective evangelistic appeal. Let 
our preachers call upon their young men in the 
congregations to perpetuate the integrity of their 
fathers. Let them challenge the daughters to 
continue in a fresh generation the piety of their 
mothers. Who will be baptized for the dead?"^ 
Who will plant his foot in the prints that the old 
pilgrim has left? The time has come to dare 
our young people, to taunt them, to put them on 
their mettle. In all our churches we find a dimin- 
ishing band of aged men who, in their day, bore 
a valiant witness for the truth, and, in many 
cases, reared the buildings in which we worship. 
We honour them, and say of them as the Spartan 
youths said of their grandsires, ^^They have been 
brave F' And most of us are surrounded by 
excellent and devout men, who hold office in our 
churches to-day. These, too, we honour with 



ON THE OLD MAN'S TRAIL 57 

grateful delight. We owe them much. ^'They 
are brave!'' But when we look around for the 
next generation of stalwarts, it must be con- 
fessed, without yielding to pessimism or panic, 
that things are not so promising. The multipli- 
cation of popular pleasures is working sad havoc. 
They are few upon whom we can look with pride 
and say, ^^ These will he hraveV' But let us sound 
this new note ! Let us tell of the splendid hero- 
ism and noble self-sacrifice and beautiful devo- 
tion of their fathers. And as, with one hand, we 
point to the honoured graves of the standard- 
bearers who have fallen in the fight, and, with 
the other, to the battle still hotly contested and 
still unwon, surely, surely, surely we shall dis- 
cover those whose memories will twine them- 
selves about the tender grace of a day that is 
dead, and whose soul will respond with eagerness 
to so searching and pathetic a challenge! Let 
us say to them, "Elijah, my servant, is trans- v 
lated: now therefore arise!" and peradventure 
Elisha will step forth and claim the mantle that 
has fallen. Let us say to them, "Moses, my serv- 
ant, is dead: now therefore arise, and lead my"^ 
people Israel!" and peradventure Joshua will 
step into the breach ! It may be that some young 
pilgrim will plant his foot in the old man's 
prints ! Let us dare men, by the graves of their 
sires, to be solemnly baptized for the dead. 



VI 

SANDY 

Old Sandy McAlister was a perfect godsend to 
his minister; and, in his own peculiar way, he 
rendered the church most excellent service. Mos- 
giel is a scattered district, and Sandy lived some 
distance from the church. He was not strong; 
and his attendance depended to a large extent 
on the state of the weather and the condition of 
the roads. I confess that it took me a good while 
to fathom Sandy. He said very little ; and some- 
how I came to think of him as a man with a 
secret. I was not far out, as this record will 
show. I knew Sandy for years before I dis- 
covered the hidden depths of sweetness and 
chivalry that his brusque and rugged exterior 
so cleverly concealed. That is one of the delights 
of a lengthy pastorate. It takes a long time to 
get to know some of the most lovable people. 
Had I left Mosgiel after three years, I should 
have cherished no amiable memory of Sandy. 
As it is, I stayed long enough to find him out; 
and he became one of my fastest and most confi- 
dential friends. 

58 



SANDY 59 

It was a queer little house in which Sandy 
lived all by himself. He had been a widower for 
many years; of children he had none. He had 
neither the means nor the inclination to engage 
a housekeeper; and he was too fond of his own 
little ways to seek board and residence with 
others. And so he lived alone in his little two- 
roomed cottage — his "but and ben," as he called 
it. The cottage lay back from the road with all 
the garden in front. Sandy was no aesthetic. 
He had a frugal mind. I can see now the tall 
rows of French-beans; the sprawling marrow 
plants ; the tangle of potato haulms ; the beds of 
gigantic cabbages punctuated here and there by 
the headless stalks of those that had surrendered 
dear life for Sandy's sake. Sandy took inordi- 
nate pride in these departments of horticulture. 
I remember his taking me out by moonlight to 
admire a magnificent cauliflower ; and, in winter 
time, when the snow had buried his frozen gar- 
den, he would sit in his rocking-chair by the 
glowing fire and glance lovingly at the enormous 
vegetable marrows that reposed on a shelf near 
by. Save for the roses that clambered over the 
porch, and a tall row of yellow sunfiowers that 
flourished near the fence, Sandy devoted no at- 
tention to flowers. 

Although he was frail, and a martyr to rheu- 
matism, Sandy was rarely ill. Once or twice I 



60 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

visited Mm in Ms ^'ben"; but it was usually in 
the other room that he and I overhauled the uni- 
verse. I always occupied the rocking-chair on 
these occasions. Not all the coaxing or cajolery 
in the world would persuade Sandy to take that 
chair when his minister was in the house. I tried 
once or twice to wheedle him into it, but I found 
him adamantine. "It wudna be recht!" he used 
to say ; so I capitulated, and, ever afterwards, *^ 
followed the line of least resistance and took the 
rocking-chair as a matter of course. It was more 
than forty years since he left the Homeland ; but 
he always had something to say about Scotland. 
The latest Hawick newspaper was never far from 
his chair, and it was from that geographical 
standpoint that he looked out upon the world. 
He was fond of history, although I sometimes 
fancied that his sense of proportion was slightly 
defective. To him, Waterloo was a mere skir- 
mish in comparison with Bannockburn ; whilst to 
the puny heroes of whom I sometimes talked so 
glibly, he would introduce Bruce and Wallace, 
like a pair of monstrous colossi, and all my idols 
were dwarfed and shamed out of countenance. 
It was good for me; it humbled my southern 
pride; it made me feel how jaundiced my Eng- 
lish view of things had evidently become. And 
if, in an unguarded moment, I rashly referred 
to some mere lowland poet, that pale and sickly 



SANDY 61 

luminary was instantly extinguished by the 
dazzling effulgence of Burns ! 

I noticed as soon as I settled at Mosgiel that, 
although Sandy was frequently absent from the 
ordinary services, he was invariably in his place 
at the business meetings of the church. Even on 
bleak wintry nights, ts^hen he had to fight his way 
along muddy roads through a perfect hurricane 
of rain or sleet, he was always there. I marvelled 
at this, for Sandy was not fond of debate. He 
took his seat against the wall, and manifested 
only the most languid interest in all that was 
being said and done. Sometimes he did not even 
trouble to vote. It was some little time before 
I could lay my hand on any clue to the mystery. 
But one night Sandy actually spoke. I had intro- 
duced the names of several candidates for mem- 
bership. In only one case w^as there the slightest 
hesitancy. Alan Fairmaid had been something 
of a scapegrace in the neighbourhood. The change 
from the old life to the new was so sudden as to 
savour, in the judgment of some, of impetuosity. 
It was suggested that he should be subjected to 
a probationary period of three or four months. 
If, at the end of that time, he still ran well, re- 
ceive him by all means. Owen Davids, a Welsh 
sailor, who had had experiences of his own, was 
on his feet in a moment. 

"Mr. Chairman," he said, "if Alan gets the idea 



62 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

into his head that we suspect him, it will do him 
a lot of harm. We've got to take a risk. If we 
receive him straight away, we run the risk that 
he may disappoint us and prove unworthy of our 
fellowship. If we receive the other candidates, 
but place him on probation, we may discourage 
him and turn him back to his old ways. In the 
first case we have our remedy; in the second, 
we have none. I move that all the candidates be 
approved." 

It was the case of Paul and Barnabas over 
again. There was something to be said for tak- 
ing Mark, and something to be said for leaving 
him. I admired those who were jealous for the 
honour of the church, and I admired those who 
trembled for the soul of Alan Fairmaid. At the 
critical moment, Sandy arose. I was amazed. I 
had no idea that he had it in him to make a 
speech. 

"Mr. Chairman,^' he said, ^^there is no Com- 
munion Service for over a fortnight, so that even 
if we pass these names to-night they cannot be 
welcomed until then. I move that this meeting 
stand adjourned until this night fortnight, and 
I shall make it my business to see Alan in the 
meantime." 

The proposal was eagerly adopted. During the 
next fortnight Sandy and Alan were inseparable. 
Twice of an evening I strolled along the grassy 



SANDY 63 

road to the little cottage behind the French-beans 
and the sunflowers, and on each occasion I found 
Alan in the chair opposite Sandy. And when the 
church assembled for its adjourned meeting, 
Sandy had such a glowing tale to tell of the times 
that Alan and he had spent together that the 
name was passed without the utterance of an- 
other word. All the candidates — Alan among 
them — were welcomed to fellowship at the Com- 
munion Service on the following Sunday eve- 
ning; the fortnight's intercourse between Sandy 
and Alan ripened into a fast and lifelong friend- 
ship ; and Alan adorned for many years the mem- 
bership and service of the Mosgiel church. 

Sandy made that his life-work. He was the 
champion of all doubtful cases. It was not that 
he wished to oppose those who counselled cau- 
tion. He recognized that their alarm in certain 
cases pointed to circumstances of special peril in 
the candidates — circumstances that naturally 
awakened such serious apprehension. And 
Sandy felt himself called to prevent a collapse. 
He therefore devoted his attention to those 
points at which a collapse was most to be feared. 
I remember strolling down to the cottage one 
evening and finding five of the younger members 
of the church sitting with him. One of the girls 
had brought him a lovely bunch of flowers, and 
had daintily arranged them on the table-centre. 



64 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

Sandy's big Bible was lying open near him, and 
I guessed that he had been making good use of 
his opportunity. As I glanced round the room 
at the faces lit up by the firelight, the first thing 
that struck me was that each of Sandy's guests 
had been the subject of the gravest misgiving 
when the name was first submitted to the church. 
And very possibly those sinister alarms would 
have been fully justified by subsequent events — 
if it had not been for Sandy. As it turned out, 
however, Sandy's proteges invariably proved our 
most loyal and most devoted workers. 

The illness that took Sandy from us was not a 
long one. I was out visiting in the township one 
afternoon when, looking down the long straight 
road, I was surprised to see the doctor's gig 
standing at Sandy's gate. I was soon at his side ; 
but he did not take his sickness seriously. In- 
deed, he was rather more talkative than usual. 
He was in a reminiscent mood. 

"I've been thinking about auld times," he said, 
as he took my hand. "I've never told you how it 
came about that I first joined a church. Go and 
get the rocking-chair, and put it beside the bed, 
and I'll tell ye all aboot it!" 

I brought the rocking-chair from the "but" to 
the "ben," placed it so that I sat facing him, and 
he went on with his story. 

"Weel, ye ken," he continued, lapsing, as he 



SANDY 65 

often did, into his native brogue, "I was gey wild 
in my early days. But the guid Lord had mercy 
on Sandy, and I asked the meenister if I could 
join the kirk. He shook his head, and said that 
it Avould have to be considered very carefully. A 
few weeks afterwards he told me that I had been 
put on probation, and that if I did well my appli- 
cation would be again considered. It was like a 
wet blanket. I was wrong and wicked to think 
it; but I felt that they did not want me, and I 
went back to my auld companions and my auld 
life. It was ten years before I ever troubled the 
kirk again; and those ten years were the most 
wretched years that I ever spent. I never kneel 
down beside this auld bed without asking the 
good Lord to blot out the memory of those dread- 
ful years. And now ye ken why I took a wee 
bit interest in Alan Fairmaid and the ither lads 
and lasses. I canna do much ; but if I could save 
a single one of them from years like those ten 
years of mine I should feel that I had dune a 
guid day's work.'' 

It was the last talk I ever had with him. At 
his funeral I spoke for a few moments on The 
Glory of the Rearguard — that obscure detach- 
ment that follows the army, gathers up all the 
stragglers, and saves all those who would other- 
wise fall out. Sandy left nothing — he had lived 
on a little pension that lapsed with his death — 



66 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

but a few of his admirers erected a modest stone 
above bis grave. And I noticed that, in raising 
that monument, Alan Fairmaid and the young 
people I met in Sandy's room were among the 
largest contributors. 



VII 

THE ENCHANTED COAT 

I HAVE met it three times now — that romance of 
invisibility. As a small boy, I came across it in 
a fairy-tale. How vividly it all comes back to 
me! That was a great day in my little life. 
When I scrambled out of bed and looked out of 
the window, the earth was buried deep in snow, 
and the flakes were still falling thick and fast. 
At the breakfast-table a lively debate took place 
as to whether it was safe for me to go to school. 
The spirit of adventure seized me : I should feel 
like a polar explorer; I begged to be allowed to 
go. I well remember fighting my way through 
the storm and the snowdrifts; and when I at 
length reached the half-buried school there were 
not a dozen of us there. "We can't have classes," 
said the schoolmaster ; "you had better go to the 
library and get some books and sit round the 
stove and read them !" 

It so happened that I had been school librarian 
the week before; and in overhauling my library 
charges I had discovered a volume of fairy-tales. 

67 



68 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

I knew just where to lay my hand upon it. What 
a day I had! But it all turned upon that in- 
visible coat. How could Jack have conquered 
the giant; how could he have slain the dragon; 
how could he have escaped from the ogre's bone- 
littered dungeon ; how could he have rescued the 
charming princess whom he afterwards married, 
but for that enchanted garment? He had but to 
throw it over his shoulders and, like a flash, both 
it and he were instantly invisible. How I 
chuckled, as I sat beside the stove that day, in 
the enjoyment of Jack's magic secret. I watched 
the most gruesome and terrible monsters draw 
near to destroy him; but I felt a wild, unutter- 
able joy in their stealthy approach, for I knew 
that, at the critical moment. Jack's wondrous 
coat would wave above his head and the horrid 
brutes would be destroyed. I felt my cheeks 
flush with excitement ; and all mundane things — 
even the deepening snow — were millions of miles 
away. If I had possessed that enchanted coat 
myself, it could scarcely have afforded me more 
pleasure. It was a great experience. 

I left the fairy-tales behind me in the old 
library cupboard at school, but not the enchanted 
coat. I met it again in Plato. Every reader of 
the Republic remembers the ring of Gyges. 
Gyges, according to the philosopher, discovered 
a wondrous ring w^hich, when placed upon the 



THE ENCHANTED COAT 69 

finger and turned in a certain direction, rendered 
the wearer totally invisible. Here again was the 
old story, that I first read beside the stove, re- 
appearing in a slightly altered form. 

A year or so ago I came upon it yet once more. 
I one day bought everything that Mr. H. G. 
Wells has written, his Invisible Man among the 
rest. Here is a man who discovers some chemical 
secret, and he straightway becomes invisible. "I 
shall never forget," he says, "the strange horror 
of seeing my hands become as clouded glass and 
watching them grow clearer and thinner as the 
days went by, until at last I could see the sickly 
disorder of my room through them, though I 
closed my transparent eyelids. My limbs became 
glassy; the bones and arteries faded, vanished." 
He was invisible ! I need not recount the adven- 
tures that followed. But, clearly, here we have 
Jack's enchanted coat and the ring of Gyges over 
again. 

Now, strange to say, this thrice-told tale has 
had an effect upon me exactly the opposite to 
that which might have been expected. Instead 
of making me yearn for an enchanted coat like 
that of Jack, or for a magic ring like that of 
Gyges, or for a chemical secret like that of Mr. 
H. G. Wells's hero, I have been made to feel that 
a good substantial body — immune from all possi- 
bility of invisibility — is a very useful contrivance 



70 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

to carry about with you. I know that it is gen- 
erally considered the correct thing to abuse the 
body and to call it ugly names. I dare say that, 
like myself, it has its seamy side; but at this 
moment I am more disposed to dwell on the other 
phase of the picture. Circumstanced as I now 
am, a body is a distinct convenience. That it 
has material advantages, any one can see. I am 
afraid that my friends would cut me dead on the 
street if I ventured forth without it. They could 
scarcely be expected to recognize me. Like the 
address at the heading of my note-paper, my 
body enables my friends to locate me. It pro- 
claims to all and sundry my precise whereabouts. 
If I form the bad habit of writing my letters on 
paper that bears no address, my correspondents 
will be compelled to direct their replies by guess- 
work. As a natural and inevitable consequence, 
their communications will go wandering about 
the world, and perhaps never find me. In the 
same way, if I contract the vicious habit of going 
out of an afternoon without my body, I shall 
plunge my friends into endless confusion. Think 
of the difficulties that must be theirs when they 
attempt to converse with me! I can imagine 
the start that Jones will give when, seeing him 
standing on the post-office steps, I approach and 
bid him good-day ! I can fancy the wild, distress- 
ful glances that he will hastily bestow upon all 



THE ENCHANTED COAT 71 

the points of the compass as he sweeps the hori- 
zon in search of the owner of the voice that has 
so startled him. I shall soon be able to put him 
at his ease by explaining that I have inadver- 
tently left my body in the study; but the awk- 
wardness will remain. Passers-by will naturally 
suppose that he has taken leave of his senses. 
They will see him gazing into empty space con- 
versing all the time with characteristic anima- 
tion, and they will exchange significant looks 
with one another, tapping their foreheads as they 
do so. Moreover, it is conceivable that my de- 
parture will be as unknown to poor Jones as my 
approach, and he will still be addressing me on 
the post-office steps whilst, as a matter of fact, I 
am a quarter of a mile farther up the street. The 
position will be decidedly uncomfortable. 

But it is not the mere matter of discomfort 
that has most impressed me. I am convinced 
that my body serves a moral as well as a material 
purpose. I am a better man for having a body 
to carry about with me. I hear people speak of 
the body as though it acted as a brake upon good- 
ness. It may occasionally do so; but far more 
often it acts as a restraint upon badness. Take 
our criminal courts. What has led to the arrest 
of these men? Was it not the fact that they 
were under the necessity of carrying their bodies 
about with them? Had they possessed Jack's 



72 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

enchanted coat, they could have outraged the 
law with impunity. Let us suppose, for the sake 
of an illustration, that I am tempted to become 
a burglar. There is really only one serious diffi- 
culty. If it were not for that one difficulty we 
should have a hundred times as many burglaries 
as now trouble us. I need scarcely add that that 
one supreme difficulty is my body. Nature, bent 
on dissuading me from becoming a burglar, says 
to me, "Well, if you have really made up your 
mind to earn your living by breaking into other 
people's houses, you must take your body with 
you wherever you go I'' It is a terrible condition 
for Nature to impose upon me. My body weighs, 
let us say, at least a hundredweight. Here am I, 
about to fare forth on an exceedingly delicate 
business, a business in which secrecy and silence 
are absolutely essential to success, and Nature 
compels me to carry a hundredweight of solid 
matter with me as I go! You might as well 
attire an athlete in a suit of mail before starting 
Mm on his race ! I shall have to drag that hun- 
dredweight of flesh from my house to the house 
that I propose to rob, and the wretched thing will 
make a noise all the way. Under its weight twigs 
will snap, gravel will crunch, stones will rattle, 
floors will scroop, stairs will creak, and a multi- 
tude of echoes will be started by such a cumbrous 
load. All sorts of accusing and incriminating 



THE ENCHANTED COAT 73 

noises will be made, and any one of them may 
prove my undoing. Moreover, my body appeals 
not only to the ear, but to the eye. Nature says 
to me, "If you dare to attempt a burglary, you 
will have to take your body with you, and then 
somebody will see itF^ You can see what she is 
driving at: she means to turn me from my evil 
purpose. A body is such an easy target for a 
prying eye. My only chance — since I must needs 
take it with me — is to go about my felonious task 
at dead of night, wrapping up my body in inky 
darkness. When I see anybody approaching, I 
must instantly hide it in a culvert or behind a 
hedge. It is a horrible thing to be bothered with, 
and multiplies the chances of detection immeas- 
urably. Thinking it over in this way, I find the 
risks are too great, and I decide that a burglari- 
ous life is not the life for me. As a matter of 
fact, thousands decide in that way, and for the 
selfsame reasons. It is just because a burglar 
is obliged to take his body with him wherever 
he goes that so few men, comparatively speaking, 
become burglars. 

I confess that when I was a little fellow, gloat- 
ing over Jack's famous exploits with his fairy- 
coat, I thought that such a garment, if I could 
only get hold of it, would represent a very valu- 
able addition to my wardrobe. But that was 
obviously a very small boy's way of looking at 



74 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

things. By the time that I came upon Gyges and 
his ring I had grown wiser. I could not help 
noticing that, although Gyges intended to use 
his magic power wisely and well, the temptations 
that it suggested were too much for him; and 
before he knew what had happened he had com- 
mitted every crime in the calendar. This left 
on my mind a mere hazy and uncomfortable im- 
pression; but that impression was crystallized 
into conviction when I came to Mr. H. G. Wells. 
His Invisible Man started innocently enough; 
but when the rascal found that he could do what 
he would without the slightest fear of detection, 
he stole, plundered, and murdered until every- 
body longed for the day when earth should be 
rid of so terrible a monster. 

I then made up my mind, once and for all, that 
there are considerable advantages, of a moral 
and ethical character, in being visible, audible, 
tangible, incarnate. And when I read, as I some- 
times do, the anonymous letters that appear in 
our newspapers, the feeling comes back upon me. 
The anonymity of a newspaper is the nearest 
approach to an enchanted coat or a magic ring 
that I know. It enables a man to act and speak 
without being seen at all. And, somehow, very 
few men seem able to avail themselves of that 
peculiar privilege without being horribly spite- 
ful. As soon as human nature flings an en- 



3?HE ENCHANTED COAT 75 

chanted coat over its shoulders, it becomes in- 
stantly malicious. The spirit of a man is safest 
when embodied. When I can be trusted without 
a body I shall no doubt be permitted to lay that 
encumbrance aside. For the present I need a 
body for the preservation of my character and 
the salvation of my soul. I dare not fancy the 
depths of degradation into which I might de- 
scend if I were relieved of the flesh that is 
wrapped around me. And was not the redemp- 
tion of the world achieved not by a disembodi- 
ment, but by an incarnation? Who can say hard 
things about his body after that? 



yiii 

COMPANIONS OF THE BUSH^ 

With the Companionship of the Bath I never 
expect to be honoured in this world, but to the 
Companionship of the Bush I was admitted years 
ago. There are mystic rites of initiation of which 
only bushmen know; secret sights and sounds 
that would convey no meaning to those who have 
never cultivated the intimacy of these vast Aus- 
tralian solitudes, but which, to the confidants of 
the forest, are pregnant with wealthy signifi- 
cance and instinct with wondrous symbolism. 
An Englishman who saw this house from which 
I write, perched as it is like an eyrie on the 
cliffs, would take it for granted that I was en- 
tirely destitute of anything in the nature of com- 
panionship. Here I sit, looking out upon a 
lonely sea, whilst the great virgin bush clothes 
all the plains and slopes around me. This is the 
eighth long, delightful holiday that I have spent 
here, and the better I know the spot the more do 



1 The •'Companions of the Bush" first made their appearance in the columns 
of the Christian World; and I gratefully acknowledge the courtesy of the editor 
of that journal in permitting me to provide them, in this volume, with a per- 
manent home. — ^F. W. B. 

76 



COMPANIONS OF THE BUSH 77 

I marvel at those who could suppose that I was 
lonely. I have, it is true, left the world behind 
me. The scream of railway-trains, the shout of 
newsboys, and the hum of city life are miles and 
miles away. If, in the course of my rambles, I 
chance to fall and break my leg, the task of get- 
ting myself found, and then of arranging for a 
barge to take me forty miles over a rough sea 
to a doctor, will present difficulties of its own; 
but who bothers his head about such morbid 
possibilities? In exchange for the crowds of the 
city I have the companions of the bush. Allow 
me to introduce you. 

First of all, let us go down to the beach. Come 
with me along this narrow track through the 
scrub, and down over the cliff on to the sands. 
That sudden hissing noise? Oh, it is nothing — 
just an army of crabs, thousands and thousands 
of them, frightened out of their wits by our in- 
vasion of their domain, and all trying to bury 
themselves in the sand at the same time. But 
look out there at the water's edge ! On the fringe 
of the sandpit stand twelve grey storks. They 
look as solemn as judges, although their number 
is more reminiscent of juries. They strut sedately 
up and down, stooping occasionally to devour 
some tasty morsel that the lapping waves fling 
at their feet. Let us go nearer. They will allow 
us to approach within fifty yards of them, and 



78 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

then away they go all together, their long legs 
trailing out behind them. They will not fly far, 
for they know we mean them no harm. A couple 
of hundred yards along the shore they settle 
again, and go on fishing as serenely and silently 
as though we had never disturbed them. 

A strange contrast to the solemn, silent storks 
are the noisy parrots up there in the blue-gums. 
Parrots of many kinds and colours flock to these 
giant trees around the house. They seem as fond 
of human companionship as the magpies that 
cluster round the door. In these trees I have 
brought down at one shot three fine birds of most 
exquisite and brilliant plumage, and have felt 
ashamed of the havoc that I have wrought until 
I remembered that the farmers and orchardists 
away back would unite in blessing me. The 
noisy birds in the branches above us just now, 
however, are big grey parrots, with black faces, 
and their sombre garb is in striking contrast 
with the gay feathers of those that sometimes 
visit us. 

Returning to the house, I must introduce you 
to Darby and Joan. Darby and Joan, be it 
known by these presents, are the two large 
iguanas who make their home under the floor 
of the back verandah. Darby is about eighteen 
inches long ; Joan is an inch or two shorter. On 
a warm day like this you will generally find them 



COMPANIONS OF THE BUSH 79 

out in the sun within twenty yards of their base. 
Here, surely enough, is Darby just creeping into 
the woodshed. A big, plump, scaly thing he is, 
shining in the bright sunlight, his furtive, rest- 
less little eyes watching you with evident sus- 
picion. He is a repulsive creature. Stoop to 
stroke him, or to pick him up, and he will look 
savagely at you, and dart out his long blue 
tongue with lightning rapidity. But when you 
get to know him you will ignore such threats and 
handle him as you will. They say that he is more 
than a match for the deadliest snake in the bush, 
but I have never known of any human being 
being harmed by him ; and I have seen boys maul 
a poor iguana in such a way that, had I been the 
iguana, I would have bitten if I could ! 

I should like you to meet Jack, but Jack is 
wofully shy. Jack, you know, is the bandicoot 
(perameles ohesula) that lives in the scrub about 
a hundred yards along the track behind the 
house. I usually come upon him as I return to 
the house in the gloaming. He sits under a wisp 
of scrub right on the edge of the track until I am 
almost up to him, and then away he goes — hop, 
hop, hop — through the grasses and up the bank. 
The uninitiated might mistake him in the semi- 
darkness for a rabbit; but there is a great dif- 
ference. A rabbit, getting out of your way, goes 
a few yards — lippety-lip, lippety-lip, lippety-lip 



80 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

— and then pauses to take fresh observations, 
his little white tail betraying his identity all the 
time. But Jack never behaves so foolishly. 
When once he starts, he goes on and on, jumping 
on his hind legs like a kangaroo, until he is well 
out of your sight. Your only chance of observing 
him closely is just before he starts. He sits up 
staring at you. How wise he looks, with his long 
nose, long whiskers, and cunning little eyes I 
"Here, Jack, don't be frightened I We won't hurt 
you I" But Jack takes no risks. There he goes I 

I w^as strolling along the track the other day, 
a quarter of a mile or so from the house, when I 
came on old Bristles, the porcupine or ant-eater 
(echidna aculeata). Such a rustle and a clatter 
he was making in the undergrowth that a deaf 
man could scarcely have missed him. I stepped 
towards him, and he almost dived into solid 
earth. The rapidity with which he can hide him- 
self even in the hardest ground is incredible. 
With the greatest difficulty and by the exertion 
of all my strength I at last turned him out with 
my stick, and holding him by his hind foot — the 
only safe handle — held him up for examination, 
and then, having passed the time of day, I set him 
down, and he vanished, as if by magic, before you 
could say Jack Robinson. 

I have left Satan until the last. Satan is the 
big black snake who lives down by the gate. I 



COMPANIONS OF THE BUSH 81 

have never seen Satan, but every day I see his 
wriggling track across the sand by the gate, and 
a friend once caught sight of the flash of his tail 
as it vanished in the fern. That is the one re- 
deeming feature of our Australian snakes. They 
are the deadliest in the world, and they are evi- 
dently plentiful. I find their tracks everywhere, 
but I have never seen one yet. Dead ones I have 
found, and skins that have been sloughed, but 
never a real live snake. I have brought the chil- 
dren here, and sent them scampering through 
the bush in search of orchids, and although they 
have scoured hills and valleys for weeks on end, 
no one of them has ever come upon a snake. The 
whole place swarms with them; a bite means 
almost certain death; and yet so elusive are the 
reptiles that the bush is almost as safe as an 
English common. I suppose more children die 
of wasp-stings in England than of snake-bites in 
Australia. We have no wasps. 

I have said nothing about my maritime com- 
panions. From the boat I sometimes look down 
into clear, translucent depths, and, among the 
magnificent forestry far down in the waters, I 
see fish by the thousand. From the shark, fifteen 
feet long — who sometimes lies alongside and 
stares at me, and then goes gracefully away 
through the depths beneath — to the swarms of 
perch and cod, trevally and trumpeter, mackerel 



82 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

and flathead, the sea is simply moving with fish. 
Here is the food supply of our sojourn in the 
bush. 

These are the Companions of the Bush; but 
there are K.C.B.'s as well as C.B.'s. Let me 
tell of two. Two or three miles over the hill 
there I could take you to a lonely orchard. As 
you approached the house a gentle English lady 
would come out to meet you ; and if you told her 
that you also came from England it would be 
some minutes before she could speak to you. Is 
she sorry that she left the crowded homeland for 
this solitude amidst the wilds? She is too brave 
to say "Yes/' but it takes the heart of a lion to 
leave all the dear associations of the old country 
and settle down in a desolate spot like this. The 
women of the bush! As George Essex Evans 
sang: 

"The red sun robs their beauty, and, in weariness and gain. 
The slow years steal the nameless grace that never comes 

again; 
And there are hours men cannot soothe, and words men 

cannot say — 
The nearest woman's face may be a hundred miles away." 

I know a little shanty a few miles farther back. 
I should scarcely have noticed it, but I saw a 
bullock w^agon drop a big box under a bluegum- 
tree beside the track. Presently I saw a young 
fellow not much bigger than the box emerge from 



COMPANIONS OF THE BUSH 83 

the trees, pick up the box, and stagger off with 
it. I called to him. He was a Lancashire lad. 
He had come out by himself, penetrated into 
these wilds, taken up this selection, burned down 
the bush, torn up the stumps, ploughed the soil 
and planted an orchard, with never a soul ta 
break the silence or listen to his voice. The box 
contained his stores for another month. He 
carried it through the bush and up the hill to the 
little one-roomed house that he had built for him- 
self. We talked for awhile of England before we 
parted, and his eyes moistened. ^^Are you sorry 
you came out?" I asked him. "No," he answered ; 
"this is the place for a young fellow. It's grand 
to be opening up a new country !" If there had 
been another present I would have called for 
three cheers. Three cheers for the pioneers — 
three cheers for the KC.B.'s! 



IX 

THE MAN IN THE MOON 

It is high time that I turned my attention to this 
extremely eminent personage. It is usual to say 
that one knows no more about a thing than the 
Man in the Moon. But this constant assumption 
of the ignorance of the Man in the Moon is — like 
so many of our assumptions — a baseless fallacy. 
Depend upon it, there are some things of which 
the Man in the Moon knows far more than we 
do — the moon itself, for example. The Man in 
the Moon is absolutely unique in that particular. 
He is the one man in the entire universe who 
cherishes no illusions about the moon. Every- 
body else has been moonstruck at some time or 
other. Did not Du Maurier declare that we all'^ 
haunt the moon until we are forty? But at that 
age we begin to content ourselves with the drab 
commonplaces of dear old Mother Earth; and 
then, for the first time, we really enjoy ourselves. 
There may be a spice of pardonable exaggeration 
in the statement; but it is not all exaggeration. 
Paul says, in the course of one of his most stately , 
and tremendous arguments, that there are celes- 

84 



THE MAN IN THE MOON 85 

tial bodies, and there are bodies terrestrial. If 
I may wrest his words from their context, and 
use them in a sense slightly different from that 
in which he employed them, I should state the 
distinction in this way: celestial bodies circle, 
for the most part, round the sun; terrestrial 
bodies circle, for the most part, round the moon. 
Look, for example, at our literature. What 
budding poet would have the temerity to address 
himself to any other theme until he had written 
an ode to the moon? Or what novelist would/ 
dare to write a triumphant "Finis'' on the last 
sheet of his ponderous manuscript unless that 
manuscript somewhere contained a vivid descrip- 
tion of an affecting and romantic moonlight 
scene? Or what composer would dream of atv 
tempting more serious w^ork until he had com- 
mitted himself to a moonlight sonata? Or what 
aspiring artist would think of proceeding to 
other subjects until he had exj^ressed his soul 
in a picture of "The Bay by Moonlight''? The 
thing is out of the question; it would be a fla- 
grant defiance of all the great historic prece- 
dents; an iconoclastic outrage of the eternal 
fitness of things. Literature and music and art 
are drenched in moonbeams and saturated with 
lunar effects. What with the harvest moon, the 
crescent moon, the rising moon, the waning 
moon, the clouded moon, and the silvery moon, 



86 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

our literature seems to resolve itself into a kind 
of moonlight serenade. We are hopelessly moon- 
struck. I am afraid there is no escape from that 
unamiable conclusion. But we are only in love 
with the moon because we do not know the moon. 
We sing our love-songs to the moon — at a dis- 
tance; and distance lends enchantment to the 
view. No man who has ever lived on the moon 
would dream for a single moment of writing an 
ode to it. No man who has ever really seen the 
moon would talk any more about moonlight 
effects. You will never persuade the Man in the 
Moon to wax sentimental on the subject. Sir 
J. W. Dawson, the great geologist, describes the 
moon as a dry, dead, withered world. The lugu- 
brious Ko-Ko, in speculating as to the possibility 
of falling in love with the elderly and faded 
Katisha, reminds himself that 

"There's a fascination frantic 
In a ruin that's romantic,'* 

but I fancy that even he would draw the line at a 
"dry, dead, withered'^ affair! Who can get up 
any enthusiasm for a world that is blasted, burnt- 
up, played-out, exhausted, desolate, and cold? 
Any man who has spent five minutes on the moon 
knows that it is the most dreary, dismal world 
that swims in space ; a world in which no flower 
ever blooms, in which no bird ever sings, in which 



THE MAN IN THE MOON 87 

no dewdrop ever glistens, in which no brightness 
or beauty are ever seen. It is a weird and mon- 
strous wilderness — arid, grey, silent, and mo- 
notonous ; with nothing to make it tempting and 
nothing to make it terrible. It is sullen, sinister, 
sardonic, and grim. And this is the world, may 
it please you, to which we address our odes and 
sonatas! The Man in the Moon knows better. 
If he sang any song he would sing Cowper's 

"I am out of humanity's reach, 

I must finish my journey alone. 
Never hear the sweet music of speech; 

I start at the sound of my own. 
Oh Solitude! where are the charms 

That sages have seen in thy face? 
Better dwell in the midst of alarms 

Than reign in this horrible place!'* 

The Man in the Moon is the one man in the entire 
universe in whose brain the moon inspires no 
illusions. 

I am scarcely prepared at this moment to enter 
into biographical details concerning the Man in 
the Moon, although I am not totally destitute of 
information. In a lonely part of the Waikato 
district of New Zealand, I once met an old Maori 
who seemed to have known the Man in the Moon 
pretty intimately. As he leaned against a giant 
kauri that had recently been felled, this tattooed 
and war-scarred veteran assured me that the 



88 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

Man in the Moon was once a New Zealander. It 
flashed upon me that peradventiire it was none 
other than Macaulav's famous New Zealander — 
the New Zealander who, according to the his- 
torian, is one day to take his stand on a broken 
arch of London Bridge and sketch the ruins of 
St. Paul's I Is it possible that, beneath some 
lunar influence, he has lost his way to London 
and landed on the moon? And does he fancy as 
he pensively gazes on the charred and battered 
debris that litters the surface of that soulless 
orb, that these shapeless piles of ashes represent 
all that remains of the proud British metropolis? 
But when I had heard the entire narration, I 
saw that this ingenious hypothesis would scarcely 
square with my old Maori's story. For, once 
upon a time, he explained, a certain chief, whose 
name was Utuhina, was on a journey. He pressed 
on and on, but came upon no water, and his 
tongue was swollen with thirst. But, on a bright 
moonlight night, as he thridded a deep and 
wooded valley, he heard the silvery laughter of a 
stream. The bush was dense, and he could 
scarcely see his way from one tree to another. 
But it was moonlight, and he struggled on. Just 
as he was approaching the musical water, how- 
ever, a great cloud veiled the face of the moon, 
and he could see nothing. Then Utuhina shook 
his fist at the sky, and cursed the moon that 



THE MAN IN THE MOON 89 

would not help him to the hidden stream. And 
then, as soon as the cloud had passed, the moon 
came down, seized Utuhina, and threatened to 
bear him away. Poor Utuhina clutched a tree 
in his terror, but the moon was too strong for 
him. She carried him off, tree and all; and if 
any Maori child is so sceptical as to doubt the 
story, all that he has to do is to take a good look 
on a clear moonlight night, and there, in the 
moon, he can see Utuhina for himself, still bear- 
ing the tree about with him I 

I give the story exactly as I received it : I can- 
not, of course, vouch for its historicity. But 
assuming, for the sake of argument, that the Man 
in the Moon is an earthman who has been trans- 
ferred to, or stranded on, that drear abode, I 
wonder what he thinks of our rhapsodies about 
the moon! As he remembers the enchanting 
loveliness of the sphere from which he was so 
rudely snatched, and as he surveys the madden- 
ing gloom of the charnel-house to which he has 
been exiled, I wonder what he thinks of our odes 
and our romances, our pictures and our sonatas. 
As Utuhina recalls the snow-capped mountains, 
the evergreen bush, and the magnificent land- 
scapes upon which he gazed in the course of that 
last fatal journey in New Zealand, and as he 
surveys the barren horrors of his lunar land- 
scapes, I wonder if he feels inclined to write 



90 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

sentimental songs about the moon! If we only 
saw things in their true perspective, we should 
discover that our very ability to break into 
poetry on such a theme is itself an eloquent 
tribute to the charms of the world on which we 
live. Jud Brownin, in his familiar account of 
Rubinstein's playing, says that the illustrious 
pianist made him feel that he had fallen in love 
with somebody — he didn't know whom! Pre- 
cisely! It was the music that did it. His con- 
fession of tenderness for some person or persons 
unknown is his tribute to the witchery of the 
player. And, in precisely the same way, our 
sentimentality about the moon is simply the out- 
flowing of those waves of inspiration which have 
swept over us as we have feasted our eyes upon 
the beauty of our own world. 

Sou they tells of a curious drean; that once 
visited him. He dreamed that the Man in the 
Moon was dead, and that everybody was compet- 
ing for the vacant place. The poet seems to 
imagine that there is something grotesque about 
the notion; but he is mistaken. Nothing could 
be more true to life. If he had asked me to tell 
him the dream and the interpretation thereof, 
my task would have been a very simple one. For 
I am certain that if the Man in the Moon were 
to absent himself for any length of time from his 
accustomed place; and if the proper authorities 



THE MAN IN THE MOON 91 

gave permission to assume that death had taken 
place ; and if application for the vacant post were 
to be publicly invited, the post offices would be 
glutted with the stacks of communications that 
would instantly pour in. For everybody wants 
to be the Man in the Moon. That is the explana- 
tion of the ebb and flow of population that is so 
prominent a characteristic of our own time. We 
are always on the move. We are afflicted by a 
chronic weariness of our actual conditions and 
a chronic yearning after some ideal conditions 
that never were and never will be. Hundreds of 
times I have visited families that were leaving - 
the district for fresh fields and pastures new. 
As they compared the conditions they were quit- 
ting with those they were embracing, how drab 
seemed the old life, how romantic seemed the 
new I In each instance I recognized the old, old 
story. The Man in the Moon was dead, and here 
were the people who had been appointed to the 
vacant place! Scores of times I have discussed 
the situation with ministers who were leaving 
one pastorate for another. In nearly every case 
I could see at once that the good man was going 
to be private chaplain to the Man in the Moon ! 
The church that he was leaving had so many 
drawbacks ; it was of the earth, earthy. But the 
church to which he was going ! Oh, that church 
to which he was going ! 



92 THE OTHEE SIDE OF THE HILL 

The Man in the Moon very rarely goes to 
church. It is extremely important that I should 
state this with the utmost clearness, not for the 
sake of casting a slur upon the character of the 
Man in the Moon, but as a hint to myself and to 
my brother ministers. For, truth to tell, I have 
sometimes fancied that our sermons were pre- 
pared on the assumption that the Man in the 
Moon will be the only person present. The ques- 
tions we discuss are not human questions; the 
problems with which we deal are not human 
problems; the language we speak is no human 
language. It may be lunar ; I am not sure. But, 
however that may be, it is all addressed to the 
Man in the Moon. 

Think of Thomas Chalmers. The most sensa- 
tional discovery of his life was the discovery that 
for more than twelve years he had been preaching 
sermons at Kilmany that bore no relationship 
whatever to the actual lives of the people to 
whom he ministered. For more than twelve 
years the parish minister at Kilmany had been 
preaching to the Man in the Moon ! Then came 
the great awakening. Chalmers was seized by 
sudden illness. During his convalescence his 
mind underwent what he himself called a great 
revolution. He found the Saviour, and entered 
into an experience of which he had previously 
never dreamed. It is difficult to read with dry 



THE MAN IN THE MOON 9g 

eyes his own telling account of that great trans- 
formation. In due time he returned to his pulpit. 
The people were electrified. The minister was no 
longer preaching to the Man in the Moon ; he was 
preaching to the men of Kilmany ! And Kilmany 
was touched to tears in consequence. "He would 
bend over the pulpit," says an old hearer, "and 
press us to take the gift as if he held it that 
moment in his hand and could not be satisfied 
till every one of us got possession of it!" The 
effect was instantaneous. As long as Chalmers 
preached to the Man in the Moon, the Man in the 
Moon made not the slightest response ; but when 
he preached to the men of Kilmany, Kilmany 
became a new village. 



PAKT II 



FORGETFUL GEEEN 

A boy's insatiable curiosity may occasionally 
serve a very useful end. Certainly, if it had not 
been for the sprightly inquisitiveness of Samuel, 
one of the sons of Christiana, we should never 
have known the name of the place at which Chris- 
tian fought with Apollyon. In the classical story 
of that famous struggle the name of the locality 
is nowhere disclosed. But when Christiana set 
out on pilgrimage, she, motherlike, took her boys 
with her. And boys will be boys. They poked 
into a hundred places that she would never have 
troubled to notice, and asked their guide a hun- 
dred questions that would never have occurred 
to her. Poor Christiana never thought without 
a shudder of her husband's terrible encounter 
with the fiend; and the less she heard about it 
the better. But the story of their father's triumph 
was very much to the taste of the boys, and their 
whys and wherefores were innumerable. 

*^Sir,'' said Samuel, "I perceive that in this 
valley my father and Apollyon had their battle ; 
but whereabout was the fight? for I perceive that 
this valley is large.'' 

97 



98 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

"Your father had that battle with Apollyon at 
a place yonder, before ns, in a narrow passage 
just beyond Forgetful Green. And indeed that 
place is the most dangerous place in all these 
parts. For if at any time the pilgrims meet with 
any brunt, it is when they forget what favours 
they have received, and how unworthy they are 
of them. This is the place also where others have 
been hard put to it. But more of the place when 
we are come to it; for I persuade myself that to 
this day there remains either some sign of the 
battle, or some monument to testify that such a 
battle there was fought.'' 

And, surely enough, when they came to Forget- 
ful Green, there stood the monument ! 

Forgetful Greeny said Greatheart, is the most 
dangerous place in all these parts, and he was 
not the first person to say so. Moses wrote a 
whole book on the subject. In the old days men 
did not consider it essential that a book should 
bear an attractive title. The book that Moses 
wrote is therefore known as The Book of Deu- 
teronomy. If it had been written nowadays, it 
would have been entitled "The Dangers of For- 
getful Green." Anybody who takes the trouble 
to glance through it will see at once that that 
is its natural title. Every chapter urges the im- 
portance of not forgetting. "Beware lest thou 
forget the Lord which brought thee up from the 



FORGETFUL GREEN 99 

land of Egypt." "Beware lest thou forget the 
day when thou earnest forth out of the land of 
Egypt." "Beware lest thou forget that thou wast 
a bondman in the land of Egypt." "Beware lest 
thou forget all the way which the Lord thy God 
hath led thee." "Beware lest thou forget what 
the Lord thy God did unto Pharaoh." "Beware 
lest thou forget what the Lord thy God did unto 
Miriam." "Beware lest thou forget what Amalek 
did unto thee by the way when ye were come 
forth out of Egypt." "Beware lest thou forget 
how thou provoked the Lord thy God to anger 
in the wilderness." ^^Beware/' he cries, again 
and again and again, ^^heware of Forgetful 
Green r' For Forgetful Green is, as Greatheart 
observed, the most dangerous place in all these 
parts. 

Now this brings to my mind a most striking 
and suggestive coincidence. For Israel was twice 
in captivity — once in Egypt and once in Babylon. 
And the singular thing is that when the people 
were about to be set free from their Babylonian 
bondage, another prophet echoed his predeces- 
sor's warnings about Forgetful Green. Isaiah 
implored the people, as they turned their faces 
once more towards Jerusalem, never to forget 
the things that lay behind them. "Look unto the 
rock whence ye were hewn," he cried, "and to the 
hole of the pit whence ye were digged." He 



100 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

pointed them back to the lowly origins of their 
national life — the pastoral tents of Mesopotamia 
and the brick-kilns beside the Nile — and he en- 
treated them to keep those modest beginnings 
always in mind. It is good for a merchant prince 
to remember that, in the early days of the busi- 
ness, his father hawked his goods from door to 
door. It is good for the millionaire to recall the 
days when his forefathers dwelt in huts and 
hovels. It is good for an empire to dwell upon 
the time when it was a nomadic and barbarous 
tribe. Men are not likely to bump their heads 
against the stars as long as they keep one eye 
steadily fastened on the past. 

As a young fellow, Macaulay was invited to 
dine with Samuel Rogers, the poet. "What a 
delightful house it is I" he says, in his descriptive 
letter to his sister. And, in telling her of the 
innumerable beauties of the place, he selects for 
special mention a fine mahogany table on which 
stood an antique vase. And to that table hangs 
a tale. For he goes on to say that, some little 
time previously, Sir Francis Legatt Chantrey, 
R.A., the eminent sculptor, had been the guest 
of Rogers. Sir Francis had a good look at the 
mahogany table on w^hich the vase was standing, 
and then asked by whom the table was made. "It 
was made by a common carpenter,'' said Rogers. 
"Do you remember the making of it?" asked Sir 



FORGETFUL GREEN 101 

Francis. "Certainly," replied Rogers, in some 
surprise, "I was in the room while it was finished 
with the chisel, and gave the workman directions 
about placing it." "Yes," said Sir Francis, ^^I 
was the carpenter! I remember the room well, 
and all the circumstances." Macaulay remarks 
to his sister that the story is honourable, both 
to the talent which raised Chantrey from ob- 
scurity to eminence, and to the magnanimity 
which kept him from being ashamed of what he 
had been. In a word, it showed that the great 
sculptor, whose work is still the pride of his 
countrymen, w^as fully alive to the importance 
and peril of Forgetful Green. It is almost as 
good as the story that Andrew Fuller tells of 
William Carey. Carey was attending a reception 
given at Calcutta to the Governor-General of 
India. His lordship was struck by the mission- 
ary's appearance. "Who is that gentleman?" he 
inquired. "Oh," drawled one of the attendants, 
"that is Dr. Carey. He is Professor of Sanscrit, 
Bengalee, and Mahratta, in the College of Fort 
William. He was once a shoemaker." "Excuse 
me, my lord," interposed Carey, who had over- 
heard the conversation, "/ was only a cobbler F' 

When you come to think of it, almost all our 
religious observances and ordinances are cun- 
ningly devised contrivances to save us from the 
dangers of Forgetful Green. We close our shops 



1^ 



102 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

and factories on one day of the week, and gather 
ourselves together in the house of prayer, in 
order that we may remind each other of the 
things that we cannot afford to let slip. And 
even the Communion Table is a feast of memory. 
"This do in remembrance of Me.'^ It is all "lest 
we forget.'' 

I spent Saturday evening glancing afresh over 
the pages of Down in Water Street. What a 
record it is! Mr. Sam Hadley deserves to be 
ranked amongst the greatest philanthropists of 
our time. During the last years of his life he was 
courted and admired in the most prodigal 
fashion. If ever a man was tempted to forget 
that he had been a bondman in the land of Egypt, 
it was he. But to the very last he kept his eye 
on the rock whence he was hewn, and the hole of 
the pit whence he was digged. He remembered 
the depths of degradation from which he had 
himself been rescued. He kept constantly in 
mind that terrible night in which, like the prodi- 
gal, he came to himself. It was on April 23, 
1882, in his lonely prison cell that he had sought 
and found the Saviour. And, from that day to 
the close of his useful and eventful life, he always 
made a pilgrimage to that cell on the twenty- 
third of April, and kneeled again on the very 
spot on which he had first found mercy. 

Forgetful Green, said Greatheart, is the most 



FOKGETFUL GREEN 103 

dangerous place in all these parts ! That, I sup- 
pose, is why old Thomas Goodwin, before enter- 
ing his pulpit, liked to ^^take a turn up and down 
among his old sins." ^^When," he says, in his 
letter to his son, "when I was threatening to be- 
come cold in my ministry, and when I felt Sab- 
bath morning coming and my heart not filled 
with amazement at the grace of God, or when I 
was making ready to dispense the Lord's Supper, 
do you know what I used to do? I used to take 
a turn up and down among the sins of my past 
life, and I always came dow^n again with a broken 
and a contrite heart ready to preach, as it was 
preached in the beginning, the forgiveness of 
sins." "I do not think," he says again, "I ever 
went up the pulpit stair that I did not stop for 
a moment at the foot of it and take a turn up 
and down among the sins of my past years. I 
do not think that I ever planned a sermon that 
I did not take a turn round my study table and 
look back at the sins of my youth and all my life 
down to this present ; and many a Sabbath morn- 
ing, when my soul has been cold and dry for lack 
of prayer during the week, a turn up and down 
in my past life before I went into the pulpit 
always broke my hard heart again, and made me 
close with the gospel for my own soul before I 
began to preach." That, I suppose, is why Paul, 
in his last Epistles, refers so frequently and feel- 



104 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

ingly to the weight of his earlier transgressions 
and the wealth of his wonderful forgiveness. 
And that, I suppose, is why Peter, in depicting 
the spiritual destitution of the man whose soul 
has become withered and stunted and dead, con- 
cludes his sad description with this tragic 
climax : "He has forgotten,'' says Peter, "he has 
forgotten that he was cleansed from his old sins." 
Forgetful Green is the most dangerous place 
through which the pilgrims pass. Christian met 
Apollyon there and completely vanquished him. 
He was very fortunate. If Samuel, or any other 
of Christiana's sons, had taken the trouble to 
turn up a spadeful of the soil of Forgetful Green, 
he would most certainly have come upon the 
bones of pilgrims who had perished there. 



II 

I.O.U. 

I USED to think — simple soul that I was! — that 
what everybody said must be true. Everybody 
said that it was very wicked to borrow. I there- 
fore resolved, in the guilelessness of my soul, 
that, as long as I lived, I would never be guilty 
of such an offence. I need scarcely say that I 
have not kept that too heroic resolution. I have 
become an incorrigible borrower. I scarcely 
meet a man in the street but the sight of his face 
sets me calculating how much I owe him. I 
borrow whenever and wherever I get the chance. 
I begin as soon as I rise in the morning, and I 
keep it up until the last thing at night. I began 
it before I got into my cradle; I shall continue 
it after I get out of my grave. I never pay for 
anything I purchase ; at least, I only pay a part, 
and get credit for the rest. When I really must 
pay, I pay, if it be at all possible, as Mr. Micaw- 
ber paid — with an I.O.U. Everybody knows the 
story. Mr. Micawber was leaving London; but 
he owed Mr. Traddles forty-one pounds ten shill- 
ings and eleven pence half -penny. 

105 



106 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

"To leave this metropolis/' said Mr. Micawber, 
"and my friend Mr. Thomas Traddles, without 
acquitting myself of the pecuniary part of this 
obligation would weigh upon my mind to an in- 
supportable extent. I have, therefore, prepared 
for my friend, Mr. Thomas Traddles, and I now 
hold in my hand, a document, which accom- 
plishes the desired object. I beg to hand to my 
friend, Mr. Thomas Traddles, my I.O.U. for 
forty-one, ten, eleven and a half, and I am happy 
to recover my moral dignity, and to know that 
I can once more walk erect before my fellow 
man." 

With this introduction, which greatly affected 
him, Mr. Micawber placed his I.O.U. in the hands 
of Traddles, and said he wished him well in 
every relation of life. "I am persuaded," says 
David Copperfield, "not only that this was quite 
the same to Mr. Micawber as paying the money, 
but that Traddles himself hardly knew the dif- 
ference until he had had time to think about it. 
Mr. Micawber walked so erect before his fellow 
man, on the strength of this virtuous action, that 
his chest looked half as broad again when he 
lighted us down the stairs." I take my stand this 
day, not only as Mr. Micawber's defender, but as 
his disciple. I am a convinced believer in the 
virtue of the I.O.U. 

Some people may consider this a shocking state 



I.O.U. 107 

of things ; but I am not in the least ashamed of it. 
I know that everybody still says that it is very 
wicked to borrow. I used to believe it ; but I now 
smile up my sleeve. For since I first heard the 
statement that it is very wrong to borrow, I 
have knocked about the world a bit, and, in the 
process, have made several discoveries. I have 
discovered that, when everybody says a thing, 
and when everybody says it as confidently as if 
it were one of the Ten Commandments, every- 
body is generally talking nonsense ! I have dis- 
covered that everybody else borrows, pretty much 
as I do ; and that those who are loudest in their 
denunciation of the habit are often the most 
addicted to it; I have discovered that, whether 
I borrow from other people or not, they will 
insist on borrowing from me; and, in sheer self- 
protection, I am driven to a policy of retaliation ! 
And — to come still nearer to the point — I have 
discovered that I must borrow or die; and, as 
dying has no immediate attractions for me, I 
prefer to borrow. I have referred to it as a 
habit. A habit it certainly is. It is wonderful 
how it grows on you. I sometimes even catch 
myself, as I shall presently explain, borrowing 
things that I do not want, things for which I 
have no earthly use ! And now I have told the 
humiliating story. If it be true, as everybody 
says, that open confession is good for the soul, 



108 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

then my soul ought to enter upon a new lease of 
life as a result of my having thus made a clean 
breast of things! 

I began borrowing early. When I was making 
my plans for invading this planet, I came to the 
conclusion that my equipment would be very 
incomplete unless I brought a body with me. In 
an earlier chapter of this book — that on *'The 
Enchanted Coat'^ — I have depicted the incon- 
venience of being without one. But a body was 
the one thing that I did not happen to possess. 
A body is composed, I was given to understand, 
of certain chemical substances. It consists of so 
much iron, so much phosphate, so much salt, so 
much soda, and so on. Now^ here w^as a dilemma 
in which to be placed at the very start ! I could 
not begin without a body; a body required all 
these substances, and I did not chance to have 
any of them about me! What was I to do? I 
could only borrow ! But from whom? It is beg- 
ging the issue to say that I borrowed from my 
parents. They no more possessed these chemi- 
cals in their own right than I did. If they had 
them, it was because they too had borrowed 
them; and to the extent to which I borrowed 
from them, I merely borrowed w^hat they had 
already borrowed. Iron, phosphate, salt, and all 
these chemicals belong to the earth beneath my 
feet ; and, strictly speaking, it was from her that 



i.o.u. loa 

I borrowed my body. *'The Lord God formed 
man of the dust of the ground." From the earth, 
then, I borrowed my body. It was distinctly a 
loan, and not a gift. I had to faithfully promise 
that, as soon as I have finished with it, I will 
return it to the earth again. "Ashes to ashes, 
dust to dust." The chemicals that I borrowed 
from the earth must all go back to the earth. 
Nature makes her advances only on the best 
security. She holds the mortgage in a very firm 
clutch, and will exact, to the uttermost farthing, 
all that she has lent. 

It is so all through life. Never a day comes to 
me under these clear Australian skies but I am 
touched to tears at the memory of the goodness — 
the self-sacrificing goodness — that my father and 
mother lavished upon me in the dear old English 
home. But now that I have left them far behind 
across the seas, I find myself surrounded by happy 
children of my own. And I see now that, in those 
old untroubled days across the years, I was bor- 
rowing, merely borrowing. And all these smaller 
hands stretched out towards me are the hands 
that Nature has sent to demand the repayment 
of the loan. If I refuse to show them love and 
tenderness and sympathy, I shall feel like a man 
whose cheque has been dishonoured at the bank. 
The time has come for the repayment of the loan ; 
I repudiate the obligation; and the faces of my 



110 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

father and my mother rise up in judgment 
against me. 

Now, in glancing over what I have written, I 
see that I have made a pair of statements for 
which I shall certainly be taken to task. Let me 
therefore fortify them in anticipation of the 
inevitable assault. I declared that, so persistent 
does the borrowing habit become, it frequently 
leads me to borrow what I really do not want. 
That is an absolute fact. Instead of contenting 
myself with the worries of to-day, do I not very 
often borrow the burdens of to-morrow? I found 
myself the other evening staggering along under 
a load that was heavy enough to crush half a 
dozen strong men. Out of sheer exhaustion I put 
it down and had a good look at it. I found that 
it was all borrowed ! Part of it belonged to the 
following day ; part of it belonged to the follow- 
ing week; part of it belonged to the following 
year; and here was I borrowing it that it might 
crush me now ! It is a very stupid, but a very 
ancient, blunder. 

"There's a saying, old and rusty, 

But as good as any new; 
'Tis 'Never trouble trouble 
Till trouble troubles you.' 

"Don't you borrow sorrow; 

You'll surely have your share; 
He who dreams of sorrow 
Will find that sorrow's there. 



I.O.U. Ill 

"If care you've got to carry. 

Wait till 'tis at the door. 
For he who runs to meet it 
Takes up the load before." 

This borrowing business must be done on very 
sane lines, or it leads to disaster. I know a man 
who borrows every Saturday all Sunday's 
energy; and on Sunday he is bankrupt. He 
would not dream of going to a picnic on Sunday 
afternoon, or of attending a picture-show on 
Sunday night. But he so exhausts himself on 
his picnics and his picture-shows on Saturday, 
that it takes all day Sunday to get over it. Our 
forefathers — the cotter of B urns' s great poem and 
the rest — used to store up Saturday's energies 
so that they might be at their best on the Sunday. 
On the whole, I prefer their way of arranging 
the matter. When good old Dr. Johnson called 
himself to account, before entering on his fiftieth 
year, and set himself to live henceforth more 
devoutly, he wrote down, as the first step towards 
that high end, ^^I resolve henceforth to go to sleep 
early on Saturday night/^ There is more sound 
philosophy in the great man's brave resolution 
than appears on the surface. 

But I made one other statement that may be 
challenged. I said that I never pay for anything 
I purchase, but only pay a part of the price and 
get credit for the rest. That is quite true, and, 



112 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

as a consequence, I am in debt to all the world. 
What of the soldier who hazards his life in my 
defence? Do I dispose of my obligation to him 
when I pay my taxes? What of the miner who 
dares the perils of the mine? Do I square ac- 
counts with him when I pay my coal bill? And 
what of the toilers who obtain for me my food? 
James Nasmyth, the inventor of the steam-ham- 
mer, tells us in his autobiography of the pictur- 
esque scenes that he witnessed as a boy in the 
old fish-market in Edinburgh. After a stormy 
night, he says, during which the husbands and 
sons had toiled at the risk of their lives to catch 
the fish, intending buyers would ask the usual 
question of the fish- wives : 

"Weel, Janet, and hoo's baddies the day?'' 
"Haddies, mem?" Janet would reply mean- 
ingly, "ou, haddies is men's lives the day!'' 

The shining fish would be sold, however, for a 
few coppers ; but did those few coppers settle the 
score? "How little we pay our way in life!" 
exclaims Eobert Louis Stevenson, in An Inland 
Voyage, "Although we have our purses continu- 
ally in our hand, the better part of service still 
goes unrewarded.'' Said I not truly that I never 
pay for anything I purchase, but only pay a part 
and get credit for the rest? Let me make no mis- 
take. Unless I give back to the world something 
that costs me blood and agony and tears, I shall, 






I.O.U. 113 

when I quit the planet at last, be in the position 
of the man who leaves the neighbourhood with- 
out first discharging his just and honourable 
debts. I set out, be it noted, to justify borrow- 
ing; I have nothing to say in defence of theft. 

I knew a man once who thought it very wicked 
to borrow. 

"My dear fellow," I said, "you can't get 
through life without it I" 

"Oh !" he answered, visibly shocked, "but does 
not the Bible exhort us to owe no man anytliing^'f 

"No," I replied, "the Bible says nothing of the 
kind. The Bible says, ^Owe no man anything 
tut ,' and that exception is the greatest ex- 
ception to a general principle that has ever been 
stated in human language. ^Owe no man any- 
thing, hut to love one anotJier/ '' And since then 
he has been struggling bravely to discharge that 
tremendous obligation. 



Ill 

A SCRAP OF PAPER 



When I was a very small boy I made a very great 
discovery — in some respects the most impressive 
and surprising discovery that I have ever made — 
and what I then found out I here set down. Be it 
known, then, that I was the eldest son of a very 
large family — mostly boys. In the later days 
of its domestic history — after the commanding 
influence of my seniority had been, through my 
transference from a scholastic to a commercial 
career, somewhat relaxed — a couple of girls were 
admitted to the charmed circle. But that was 
obviously an afterthought; and I regarded it as 
a somewhat daring innovation on the part of my 
next brother, to whom I had relegated my au- 
thority. In the days that marked these feminine 
arrivals I no longer considered myself a boy. 
Like my father and my grandfather, I required 
a couple of numerals in which to state my age; 
and I therefore looked upon the family with a 
lofty, patronizing air; and poked fun at my 
brother when things went awry. 

114 



A SCRAP OF PAPER 115 

But with that later and more complicated era 
I am not concerned. When I was a boy, we were 
all boys ; and it is of that iron age that I am now 
writing. Sunday was with us the great day of 
the week. No crack regiment ever made more 
punctilious preparation for Church Parade than 
we made every week. We marched out in proces- 
sion like a small detachment of infantry. I and 
the brother next in seniority walked in front; 
the others followed two by two; our parents 
formed an effective and formidable rearguard. 
Marching orders came from behind; and we 
never knew, when we filed out of the front gate, 
by what route the church was to be approached. 
Our commander-in-chief had an astonishing 
genius for discovering new twists and turns by 
which the walk to the sanctuary might be varied. 
We always set out, therefore, in a perfect fever 
of curiosity, and every step of the way was made 
brimful of interest. The church itself w^as so 
situated that, come by what roads we might, it 
always broke grandly upon our view some time 
before we reached it. What a massive pile it 
looked with its old grey walls, its spacious por- 
tals, and the stately spire which seemed to us to 
pierce the very sky. As a boy I was subject to 
a strange infirmity — I do not know if it is com- 
mon in boys. I sickened at the contemplation 
of a height. I vividly remember three such occa- 



116 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

sions. Standing on the deck of Nelson's old flag- 
ship, the Victory, my father bade me look at the 
height of the masts. I did so, and my brain 
reeled, so that I almost fell. Again, my father 
took me to London and, standing in St. Paul's 
Churchyard, he told me to look at the golden 
cross surmounting the cathedral dome. I obeyed 
him; but the sickening sensation overtakes me 
even now as I recall that upward gaze. And once 
I remember looking up from the road beneath 
to the top of the old church spire. I never tried 
it again. But whenever our little procession filed 
solemnly into the quiet old church, I was awed 
by a dim, subconscious sense of the vast, the sub- 
lime, the infinite that towered above me. 

II 

Ours is a long pew, and I, in virtue of my 
dignity of primogeniture, sat at the far end, 
whilst the row of heads sloped downwards in an 
inclined plane which reached its lowest point in 
the baby head that generally nestled, fast asleep, 
upon my mother's lap long before the minister 
had got to thirdly. My father sat in the seat of 
honour next to the aisle. We had each sat next to 
mother in turn, and had each learned the mys- 
teries of kneeling, standing, sitting, responding, 
and so on, before a later comer claimed the 



A SCKAP OF PAPER 117 

favourite place and pushed us farther along the 
pew. I have a notion that, as boys go, I w as 
fairly attentive and reverential. I still possess 
the prayer-book which I used in those days, and 
its well-thumbed pages show that I must have 
followed the liturgy pretty closely. 

I felt a profound respect for the old minister. 
I still treasure a fine portrait of him, and when- 
ever I gaze upon those benevolent and striking 
features, he seems to me to be the beau-ideal of 
all that a minister should be. And I had so often 
heard my parents speak of him in glowing terms 
of admiration, of affection, and of gratitude that 
my boyish fancy was -completely captivated. As 
I saw that good grey head emerge from the vestry 
door, and as I watched the familiar form, all 
gowned in cassock and stole, proceed to the 
beautiful marble pulpit, my veneration knew no 
bounds. Carlyle, in his work on Heroes, makes 
the saint lead all the rest. Certainly this old 
minister was the first of mine. I think he must 
have detected my hero-worship, for, many years 
afterwards, w^hen I had grown to manhood and 
had turned my own face wistfully towards the 
ministry, he — then very old and very frail — ex- 
pressed a wish that some of his most cherished 
volumes should be transferred from his shelves 
to mine. And the Bible which has been my com- 
panion through all my ministry was the gift of 



118 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

his widow — ^Hn memory of the past, and idth 
best wishes for the future'^ — on my accepting the 
call to my old church at Mosgiel. 

But again I have rushed ahead of myself. Let 
me get back to my boyhood. As I sat there at the 
end of the pew, I was tortured by one ceaseless 
perplexity. I was impressed by the beautiful old 
church, its lofty roof, its stately pillars, its 
storied windows, and its ornate and solemn serv- 
ices. We were always taught that it was an 
awful thing to come in late, as though we gave 
our time grudgingly to worship. I remember no 
single occasion on which such a disaster befell 
us. Care was always taken that w^e should be 
in our places some minutes before the minister 
issued from the vestry door; and no one dreamed 
of stirring at the end of the service until the 
preacher had again retired to that seclusion. 

But the thing that puzzled me was this: I 
could see no utility in it all. I used to wonder 
what end was served by it. It all seemed so hope- 
lessly remote from real life and from the pleas- 
ures and pursuits of the week. I failed to detect 
any practical purpose in this aspect of things. I 
thought my father the very personification of 
everything that was upright, everything that was 
chivalrous, everything that was noble, unselfish, 
and true ; but it never occurred to me that there 
was any connexion between his inflexible in- 



A SCRAP OF PAPER 119 

tegrity on the one hand and his attachment to 
the sanctuary on the other. I thought my 
mother the sweetest and most queenly woman of 
whom I had ever heard or read ; but I never once 
imagined that her affection for these sacred and 
awful mysteries accounted in any measure for 
her gentleness and charm. Until — but that is a 
separate story. 

Ill 

In the dear old home at Tunbridge Wells, the 
home that sheltered my earliest infancy, the 
home in which my parents still abide, there 
hangs a framed text. It is only a plainly printed 
scrap of white paper, cut from the corner of a 
penny sheet-almanac ; and yet, if something had 
to go, I fancy the finest pictures in the house 
would be sacrificed to save it. It reads like this : 



HITHERTO 

HATH 

THE LORD 

HELPED US 



It occupies a place of honour over the mantel- 
piece in my mother's bedroom. It has been there 
for more than thirty years; but I remember, as 
though it were but yesterday, the day when it 



120 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

appeared there for the first time. We boys had 
a dim consciousness that things were going 
hardly with father and mother. He looked 
anxious and worried; her eyes were often red 
and swollen; both were unusually silent. Then 
one day the newly framed text made its appear- 
ance on the bedroom wall. We boys were only 
small, but it struck us as strange that this small 
scrap of white paper should have been thought 
worthy of such conspicuous promotion. Were 
there not hundreds of pretty cards lying about 
the home, any one of which would have made a 
much more tasty and beautiful adornment? But 
somehow we felt that things at home vrere 
brighter. It was as if the weather had cleared 
up ; the fog had lifted ; drizzling rain had yielded 
to summer sunshine; father and mother were 
happier. One morning we mustered up courage 
to ask some explanation. Why had the plain 
little text been cut from the almanac in the 
kitchen and been honoured with a frame in the 
bedroom? 

But it was never in the morning, amidst the 
clatter and the bustle, that mother opened her 
heart to us. Our golden hour came on Sunday 
evening. On Sunday evening father went to 
church alone, or taking with him just one of us 
for company. I do not know to this day whether 
:we were most pleased to go or stay. What walks 



A SCRAP OF PAPER 121 

and talks those were in the evening cool of sum- 
mer, by the starlight of autumn, or as we trudged 
through the winter snow ! A boy tells his father 
under such conditions things that he would never 
dream of mentioning at any other time. What 
questions; what confidences; what revelations! 
There, surely, stands the true confessional ! And 
it was grand to see the old church at night. It 
seemed strange to see the great stained-glass 
windows showing their glories to the passer-by 
instead of to the worshippers within. And yet, 
pleasant as all this w^as, it was costly. For it 
meant forsaking the circle round the fire. There 
mother gathered her boys about her; read with 
us the collect and the lesson that were being used 
in church; and then held us spellbound with a 
chapter or two of some delightful book. It is 
w^onderful how many books we got through on 
those Sunday evenings. And before we said good- 
night we just sat and talked. Most of us were 
sprawling on the hearthrug, sitting on hassocks, 
or kneeling beside the fender. And it was then 
that mother told us all the secrets. 

"You said the other morning, mother, that you 
would tell us why you framed the paper text in 
the bedroom." 

"Well, I will. You know that father and I 
had a great trouble, and we feared a much 
heavier one. On Tuesday of last week I was 



122 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

feeling dreadfully worried. I do not know why 
I felt it so terribly just then, but I did. I had 
to drop my work, pick up the baby, and walk up 
and down the kitchen feeling that I could endure 
it all no longer. My burden seemed more than 
I could hear. It was crushing me beneath its 
weight. In pacing up and down I paused for a 
second in front of the sheet-almanac on the wall. 
The only thing I saw was the text in the corner. 
I felt as if it had been put there specially for 
me. It was as if some one had spoken the words : 
^^Hitherto hath the Lord helped us/^ I was so 
overcome that I sat down and had a good cry; 
and then I began again with fresh heart and 
trust. When father came home I told him all 
about it, and he cut out the text with his pen- 
knife, had it framed, and hung it where you now 
see it." 

IV 

It was here that I made my discovery. Here 
was the long-lost secret! Here was the con- 
nexion between religion on the one hand and 
real life on the other. I saw for the first time 
that there was a strong and subtle link between 
the services of the old grey church and the 
daily struggle in which my father and mother 
were so valiantly engaged. The discovery of 
that day took to itself all the elements of a great 



A SCRAP OF PAPER 123 

sensation. My eyes were opened and the whole 
world seemed changed. And among the big 
things of my little life the revelation of that 
memorable day stands out in bold and heroic 
relief. 



IV 

THE LATTICE WINDOW 

Bill Sikes and his burglarious companions 
reached, at dead of night, the house into which 
they intended to break. They had taken poor, 
timid, shivering little Oliver Twist with them, 
and Sikes drew the attention of the child to a 
tiny lattice window, about five feet and a half 
above the ground at the back of the house. It 
belonged to a scullery, or small brewing-place, 
at the end of a passage. The aperture was so 
small that the inmates had probably not thought 
it worth while to defend it more securely, but it 
was large enough to admit a boy of Oliver's size, 
nevertheless. A very brief exercise of Mr. Sikes' 
art sufficed to overcome the fastening of the lat- 
tice ; and it soon stood wide open. 

^^Now, listen, you young limb!" whispered 
Sikes, drawing a dark lantern from his pocket, 
and throwing the glare full on Oliver's face, "I'm 
a-going to put you through there! Take this 
light; go softly up the steps straight afore you, 
and along the hall to the street door; unfasten 
it, and let us in !" 

Only a lattice window ; a very tiny window ; a 
window so extremely small that the inmates 

124 



THE LATTICE WINDOW 125 

thought it scarcely worth securing. But it was 
large enough to admit the frail little form of 
Oliver Twist, and Oliver Twist was big enough 
to slip through the silent corridors and open the 
door for the burglars. I am convinced that half 
the tragedy of life is bound up with that little 
lattice window. 

One gets a little tired at times of the endless 
disquisitions on the causes that lead to painful 
moral collapses, and of the learned discussions 
on the decline of public morality. For the dis- 
cussion always concerns itself with the front 
door. "Let us put heavier chains on the front 
door ! Let us fix stouter bolts to the front door ! 
Let us at any cost secure the fastenings of the 
front door!'' But of what use are your bolts 
and bars, your clanking chains and safety locks, 
if the front door is approached from the inside! 
It is time that we gave up concentrating all our 
energies on the fortification of the front door, 
and began to pay some attention to the little 
lattice window. In our lamentations over some 
sudden individual collapse, or over some evi- 
dences of a decay in public morality, we very, 
very rarely put our fingers on the real root of 
the trouble. We are afraid to look far enough 
back. We forget that the disease may be very 
much deeper and very much older than its 
symptoms. And among the symptoms on the 



126 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

surface, neither the root or the remedy of the 
evil are to be discovered. We shall never make 
much progress in dealing with the mischief until 
we awaken to the fact that there is such a thing 
as a lattice window. The front door is not the 
only aperture by which burglars invade our 
privacy. 

To make my meaning perfectly clear, I must 
call another witness. Let it be John Milton. In 
the fourth book of his immortal poem, John Mil- 
ton describes Eve as Satan saw her when he first 
resolved to compass her ruin. In her beauteous 
bower she slept, the tangling network of laurel 
and myrtle, roses and jessamine, arching above 
her head; the violets, hyacinths, and crocuses 
carpeting the ground about her and loading the 
delicious air with a medley of sweet perfumes. 
It was whilst thus she slumbered beneath the 
sentinel stars that the Tempter came the first 
time: 

"Him there they found 
Squat like a toad, close at the ear of Eve, 
Assaying by his devilish art to reach 
The organs of her fancy, and with them forge 
Illusions as he list, phantasms, and dreams; 
Or if, inspiring venom, he might taint 
The animal spirits that from pure blood arise.** 

This is very significant. A mother in my con- 
gregation assured me the other day that she had 
been greatly assisted in the training of her chil- 



THE LATTICE WINDOW 127 

dren by forming the habit of talking to them in 
their sleep. "I go round," she told me, "from 
cot to cot ; I bend over them and suggest to them 
the holiest, sweetest, and most beautiful thoughts 
that I can collect. If they are sleeping soundly, 
I speak softly; if they are sleeping lightly, I 
whisper faintly. I tell them that I know they 
will grow up to be pure and good and unselfish, 
to follow the Christ, serve their fellows, and love 
God above all. And when I gather them around 
my knee, I fancy that, when I approach such 
themes, their minds seem prepared to w^elcome 
the thought. It is as though a something already 
implanted in their hearts springs up to welcome 
the idea that I then openly suggest to them.'' I 
do not know how far this is psychologically 
sound, or how far it is a mere freak of a fond 
fancy; but I have a notion that there is some- 
thing in it. It was thus that Milton describes 
the earliest approach of evil to our first mother. 
And the singular thing about this first form of 
temptation was that when Eve awoke with the 
sunrise, she was conscious only of a general hazi- 
ness and uncertainty as to all things eternal and 
divine. It was but a dream, yet that dream was 
sufficient to shake her primitive faith in the jus- 
tice, wisdom, and goodness of her great Creator. 
Her early confidence was clouded. She was less 
certain of the necessity for His singular prohibi- 



128 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

tion, and more inclined to pit her own discretion 
against His clear and explicit commandment. 

Now, it will be seen, we are back to the philoso- 
phy of the lattice window. No tragic collapse 
in the soul of Eve followed immediately upon the 
whispered insinuations of the toad, but the work 
of the serpent later on was made easier by this 
preliminary overture of evil. When the subse- 
quent temptations came, they appeared the less 
loathsome, and the arguments by w^hich they 
were commended seemed the more feasible, be- 
cause of these illusions, phantasms, and dreams 
that the toad had already so slyly insinuated into 
the slumberer's brain. The toad prepared the 
way for the serpent, just as Oliver Twist, enter- 
ing through the lattice window, prepared the 
w^ay for Bill Sikes. 

Milton makes it perfectly plain that the work 
of the toad w^as to disturb the primitive serenity 
of Eve's faith. She awoke full of doubt, full of 
uncertainty, full of terrible suspicion. No great 
harm was done; and yet the faith in the divine 
authority and goodness, the faith that would 
have made it so easy to have afterwards resisted 
the wiles of the serpent, was in ruins. Her 
simple trust and childlike confidence were shat- 
tered. That is life's great initial tragedy, and 
it is the tragedy that the statesmen and philoso- 
phers who indulge in learned disquisitions on 



THE LATTICE WINDOW 129 

the decline of public morality are too apt to 
ignore. They forget one thing. They see the 
horrid trail of the serpent, but they fail to recog- 
nize the influence of the toad who went before. 
They forget that a shattered faith is the prepara- 
tion for a ruined life. Our greatest loss is not 
the loss of morals ; that is but a symptom. It is 
the loss of faith; that is the disease. The toad 
saps and undermines the faith, because he knows 
that a man without a faith falls an easy prey to 
the serpent, who will bring more concrete 
temptations to bear on riper years. 

In a pretty little poem, Francis Browne pic- 
tures a band of pilgrims sitting by the sea re- 
counting their past adventures. They tell the 
tale of their losses. One speaks of a tiny grass- 
grown grave; one of a fortune made and lost; 
one of a ship that never came to port; and one 
of a beautiful but buried bride. 

"But when their tales were done, 
There spake among them one, 

A stranger, seeming from all sorrow free: 
'Sad losses have ye met, 
But mine is heavier yet, 

For a believing heart hath gone from me.' 

"'Alas!' these pilgrims said, 
'For the living and the dead. 

For fortune's cruelty, and love's sore cross, 
For the wrecks of land and sea; 
But howe'er it came to thee. 

Thine, stranger, is life's last and heaviest loss!'" 



130 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

That is precisely the philosophy of Charles 
Dickens and his little lattice window; it is pre- 
cisely the philosophy of John Milton and his 
Paradise Lost. First came Oliver Twist, and 
then came Bill Sikes. First came the toad, and 
then came the serpent. First came the doubt; 
then came the devil. Until Satan had appeared 
as a toad, unsettling faith and obscuring the 
issue, he dared not appear as a serpent enticing 
to definite and open rebellion. 

Obviously, therefore, the thing to be done is 
to fortify the little lattice window. Multiply 
your bolts and bars on the heavy front door if 
you will ; but such precautions are of little avail 
as long as you leave the lattice window so in- 
secure that it yields to a tap or a push. And as 
to Milton's parable, there can be no doubt as to 
the reading of his riddle. Milton is nothing if 
not practical. His moral here is practical enough 
in all conscience. In the nature of the case he 
could not place his toad at the ear of a child. 
Paradise had no children. The world's first 
baby-face peeped out upon a world that its par- 
ents had ruined. That in itself constitutes one 
of childhood's strongest claims upon maturity. 
But the swiftness with which Milton introduces 
the toad to the ear of Eve seems to indicate that 
doubt loses no opportunity through delay. Par- 
ents may shudder at the thought, but let them 



THE LATTICE WINDOW 131 

be certain, as they brush back the flaxen curls 
and kiss the foreheads of their sleeping treasures, 
that the toad is already squatting at those ears. 
If, amid the sanctities of home, from lips that 
to little children have a divine and awful au- 
thority, those infant minds do not drink in a 
sublime, vigorous, and intelligent faith in the 
things that are too beautiful to be seen as yet, 
then they will go out into life pitilessly disarmed 
and disqualified for the struggle that lies before 
them. The work of the toad has been made very 
easy. And in a few years' time the serpent will 
make desperate shipwreck of their conduct and 
their characters. But if the lattice window be 
stoutly secured, Bill Sikes will be at his wits' 
ends. 

Milton tells us that whilst the toad still spat 
his horrid doubts into the ear of Eve, Ithuriel 
came. His spear had the singular property of 
compelling every disguised form that it touched 
instantly to return to its own true character. 

"Him thus intent Ithuriel with his spear 
Touched lightly, for no falsehood can endure 
Touch of celestial temper, but returns 
Of force to its own likeness: up he starts. 
So started up in his own shape the Fiend." 

I have attempted in this modest way to render 
a similar service to those who possess at once 
the glowing opportunity and the fearful responsi- 



132 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

bility of the charge of young children. The toad 
is busy ; so must they be. It is not enough to do 
all that lies in our power to hold our young men 
and women to the paths of chastity and virtue. 
That is good as far as it goes; just as it is good 
to secure carefully the great hall door; but the 
real peril lies one step farther back. We must 
on no account forget the little lattice window. 



LUXURIATING AMONG COWSLIPS 

Shall I, I wonder, be haled before my grave and 
reverend seniors, and tried for heresy, if I admit 
the right of any two private members of the con- 
gregation to criticize the minister? At any rate, 
that is exactly what was taking place on the 
occasion of which I now write, and I, for one, 
am not at all sorry that it happened. Catherine 
Furze, according to Mark Rutherford, was walk- 
ing rapidly along the homeward road alone. 
Suddenly, she heard behind her the sound of 
wheels, and an open carriage overtook her. It 
was Dr. Turnbull's. He stopped and insisted 
on her riding. A very interesting conversation 
followed, in the course of which Catherine and 
the doctor discussed the world in general and 
the minister in particular. Catherine was in- 
clined to idolize Mr. Cardew ; but the doctor was 
a plain, blunt man, with no illusions. 

"A remarkable man in many ways,'' he ad- 
mitted, "but he is luxuriating among cowslips/^ 

It was the doctor's way of saying that the min- 
ister was out of touch with reality. "He is not 

133 



134 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

a man I much admire," the doctor said. ^'He 
thinks a good deal, and when I am in his com- 
pany I am unaccountably stimulated; but his 
thinking is not directed upon life. But his wife 
now ! There is a woman for you — a really won- 
derful woman, unobtrusive, devoted to her hus- 
band, annihilating herself for him. While he is 
luxuriating amongst the cowslips, in what he 
calls thinking, she is teaching the sick people 
patience, and nursing them. She is a saint, and 
he does not know her worth." I am delighted to 
find that the doctor has so exalted an opinion of 
the minister's wife. His well-merited tribute to 
her makes it impossible for me to resent his 
severe strictures on myself. 

Now we are on delicate ground. We must 
therefore go carefully, and deal with the doctor's 
criticism bit by bit. And, to begin with, the doc- 
tor's real grievance seems to be that, whilst Mr. 
Cardew lives in a dream-world of his own, lux- 
uriating among his cowslips, he completely fails 
to appreciate the beauty of the things right 
under his nose. Roving fancy-free, he peoples 
his world with shining angel-faces; yet, right 
opposite him at every meal, there is a pale and 
wistful face which, kissed by him, would be in- 
stantly transfigured. But, however satisfying 
the meal may be, those patient eyes always go 
away hungry. ^*She is a saint, but he does not 



LUXURIATING AMONG COWSLIPS 135 

know her worth. He is luxuriating among cow- 
slips.' ' It is very sad, and it is all the more sad 
because it is so common. We have a very ugly 
habit of glorifying the unfamiliar at the expense 
of the things close at hand. Many a man pays 
to see a painted heroine on a gaudy stage do 
things very much less heroic than she is doing 
whom he has left darning and sewing at home. 

I wish it were possible to introduce a character 
from one story to a character from another. I 
should certainly introduce Mr. Cardew to Tim 
Linkinwater. Tim is in some respects the most 
lovable character in Nicholas NicJclehy. After 
he had spent forty-four years in their service, 
Messrs. Cheeryble Brothers thought that Tim 
should be to some extent relieved of his duties, 
so they proposed an arrangement by which he 
would be able to live in the country, and come 
up to town for a few hours every day. But Tim 
would not hear of it. "It's forty-four year," he 
exclaimed, making a calculation in the air with 
his pen, and drawing an imaginary line before 
he cast it up, "foFty-four year next May since I 
first kept the books of Cheeryble Brothers. I've 
opened the safe every morning all that time 
(Sundays excepted) as the clock struck nine, 
and gone over the house every night at half-past 
ten (except on Foreign Post nights, and then 
twenty minutes before twelve) to see the doors 



136 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

fastened and the fires out. I've never slept out 
of the back attic one single night. There's the 
same mignonette box in the middle of the win- 
dow, and the same four flower-pots, two on each 
side, that I brought with me when I first came. 
There ain't — I've said it again and again, and 
I'll maintain it — there ain't such a square as 
this in the world. I know there ain't," said Tim 
with sudden energy, and looking sternly about 
him. "Not one. For business or pleasure, in 
summer time or winter — I don't care which — 
there's nothing like it. There's not such a spring 
in England as the pump under the archway. 
There's not such a view in England as the view 
out of my window. I've seen it every morning 
before I shaved, and I ought to know something 
about it. I have slept in that room," added Tim, 
sinking his voice a little, "for four-and-forty 
year; and if it wasn't inconvenient and didn't 
interfere with business, I should request leave 
to die there." Poor Tim ! Or, rather let me say, 
poor Mr. Cardew! Mr. Cardew is luxuriating 
among cowslips. He is living in a world of un- 
reality, and is getting very little fun out of it. 
Tim scouts the very suggestion of cowslips; he 
is so perfectly happy without them. It is a great 
thing to be in love with life as it is. 

In justice to Mr. Cardew, however, I am bound 
to say that he is not the only man on the face of 



LUXURIATING AMONG COWSLIPS 137 

the earth who indulges the habit of luxuriating 
among cowslips. A minister is always a fair 
target for criticism; but, really, ministers are 
not the only people who say good-bye to reality 
and get their heads entangled in the clouds. I 
recognize that it is the poorest possible defence 
to plead that others have been guilty of the same 
crime. Yet it is just as well to see that poor Mr. 
Cardew does not stand alone. As examples of 
a crowd of other offenders let me instance the ^ 
scientist and the schoolmaster. For centuries, 
Science merely luxuriated among cowslips. It 
thought and thought and thought, just as Mr. 
Cardew did, but its thinking — to quote Dr. Turn- 
bull's impeachment of his minister — was not 
directed upon life. It was Lord Bacon who did 
for Science what Dr. Turnbull did for Mr. Car- 
dew. Precisely three centuries ago that brilliant 
essayist and statesman hurled the thunderbolts 
of his vigorous denunciation into the academies 
of scientific learning and into the halls of philo- 
sophic thought, and charged the learned specu- 
lators with making no real contribution to the 
practical welfare of the race. "Words, and more 
words, and nothing but words, had been all the 
fruit of all the toil of all the most renowned 
sages of sixty generations." Curiously enough, 
the old philosophy had been singularly shy of 
meddling in matters that might serve some utili- 



138 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

tarian end, lest it should be supposed that aca- 
demic pursuits were simply followed for the sake 
of the vulgar purposes that they promoted. "In 
my time," exclaims Seneca, "men have invented 
transparent windows ; tubes for diffusing warmth 
equally through all parts of a building; and 
shorthand, which has been carried to such a per- 
fection that a writer can keep pace with the most 
rapid speaker. But the inventing of such things 
is drudgery for the lowest slaves ; philosophy lies 
deeper. It is not her office to teach men how to 
use their hands; the object of her lesson is to 
form the soul." For many hundreds of years 
the most capable thinkers were content to deal 
in nebulous theories, abstract speculations, mys- 
tifying hypotheses, and occult disquisitions. 
They were obviously luxuriating among cow- 
slips. Science was in the world like a spider in 
the water, with its own native atmosphere gath- 
ered closely about it, and fearful lest any general 
admixture should take place between the element 
that was the breath of its own nostrils and the 
turbid body of affairs beyond it. Even after the 
great revival of thought and learning that 
marked the fifteenth century, this pernicious 
superstition still survived. Between that revival 
and our own time. Bacon stands almost midway ; 
and to contrast the three centuries before him 
with the three centuries that have followed is 



LUXURIATING AMONG COWSLIPS 139 

to contrast darkness with light. In season and 
out of season he preached his doctrine that noth- 
ing can be too insignificant for the attention of 
the wisest which is not too insignificant to give 
pleasure or pain to the meanest. Until then 
Science, like Mr. Cardew, had been luxuriating 
among cowslips. Its thinking had no bearing 
upon reality. But Lord Bacon startled the 
schools and brought them to their senses. 

And Macaulay bears witness to the fact that 
the doctrine that Bacon then preached so 
forcibly has, in the result, wrought untold good. 
It has lengthened human life, he says; it has 
mitigated pain; has extinguished diseases; has 
increased the fertility of the soil ; has given new 
securities to the mariner; has furnished new 
arms to the warrior; has spanned great rivers; 
has guided the thunderbolt innocuously from 
heaven to earth; has lighted up the night with 
the splendour of the day ; has extended the range 
of human vision; has multiplied the power of 
the human muscles ; has accelerated motion ; has 
annihilated distance ; has facilitated intercourse ; 
has enabled man to descend into the depths of 
the sea, to soar into the air, to penetrate securely 
into the noxious recesses of the earth, to traverse 
the land in cars which whirl along without 
horses, and the ocean in ships which defy both 
wind and wave. 



140 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

I do not mean to imply that the scientist 
hastily abandoned his fondness for cowslips. On 
the contrary, he forsook them slowly and reluc- 
tantly. Everybody laughed immoderately at 
Shelley, when, only a hundred years ago, the 
romantic young poet discoursed to his fellow 
students at Oxford on the vast possibilities of 
Science for making men happy. A day w^ould 
come, the youthful freshman gravely predicted, 
when chemistry would teach agriculturists how 
to turn deserts into cornfields, when even the air 
and the water would yield fire and food, and 
when Africa would be explored by aviators, the 
shadows of whose aerial craft, passing over the 
jungles, would emancipate the slaves. Jefferson 
Hogg tells us that, when the young dreamer 
enunciated these fantastic ideas, the under- 
graduates regarded them as the most frenzied 
of all the flights of their brilliant young com- 
panion's vivid fancy ; yet who, knowing w^hat we 
know, can fail to see in his declaration something 
distinctly prophetic? He was simply stating 
that Science w^ould not always be satisfied with 
cowslips. 

The impeachment of the schoolmaster may be 
stated more briefly for the simple reason that the 
witnesses are tumbling over each other in their 
eagerness to give evidence against him. Dr. 
TurnbuU was Mr. Cardew's only critic; but the 



LUXUKIATING AMONG COWSLIPS 141 

schoolmaster has critics galore. Mr. H. G. Wells, 
both in Kipps and in The New Machiavelli, has 
tellingly portrayed the chasm that yawns be- 
tween the atmosphere of the schools on the one 
hand and the stern realities of life on the other. 
Mr. Wells, it is true, carries the assault into 
moral as well as into intellectual realms, but his 
criticism is robbed of none of its force on that 
account. He describes the schools and univer- 
sities pouring their stream of medalled and cer- 
tificated scholars into the glare and tumult of 
London life, whilst those bewildered young prize- 
winners find themselves as unprepared for the 
workaday requirements and flaunting tempta- 
tions of the city as if they had suddenly arrived 
from Mars or from the moon. Mr. A. C. Benson, 
in Water Springs, makes his hero, Mr. Howard 
Kennedy, Fellow and Classical Lecturer at 
Beaufort College, Cambridge, pause in the midst 
of his quiet academic routine and startle himself 
with the question as to whether or not his seques- 
tered world is in touch with reality at any point. 
And Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch has, in his own 
way, been directing attention to the same press- 
ing problem. Clearly, therefore, the propensity 
to luxuriate among the cowslips, however charac- 
teristic of Mr. Cardew, is by no means a mo- 
nopoly of his. 

One of these days Mr. Cardew, and his com- 



142 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

panions among the cowslips, will suddenly dis- 
cover that there are other flowers in the world 
beside cowslips. There are dandelions, for ex- 
ample. As a matter of fact, Catherine was com- 
ing from among the dandelions when she met 
Dr. Turnbull. Nobody can have read Mark^ 
Rutherford's great story without remembering 
for ever afterwards the wretched hovel in which 
Phoebe Crowhurst was dying, and the little bury- 
ing-ground, choked with dandelions, sorrel, and 
docks, not far off. Catherine had been to visit 
poor Phoebe. 

" ^I will read the Bible to you before I go, 
Phoebe; what would you like?' 

^Thoebe chose neither prophecy, psalm, nor 
epistle, but the last three chapters of St. Mat- 
thew. When we come near death, or near some- 
thing which may be worse, all exhortation, 
theory, promise, advice, and dogma fail." Cow- 
slips, that is to say, are at a discount. "The one 
staff which will not break under us is the victory 
achieved in a like situation by One who has pre- 
ceded us; and the most desperate private experi- 
ence cannot go beyond the garden of Geth- 
semane. Catherine read through the story of 
the conflict, and when she came to the resur- 
rection she felt, and Phoebe felt, as millions 
have felt before, that this was the truth of 
death.'' 



LUXUKIATIXG AMONG COWSLIPS 143 

Depend upon it, the dandelions are in the 
world to save us from the cowslips. If only Mr. 
Cardew could have forsaken the cowslips and got 
among the dandelions, it would have been his 
salvation. If a man is inclined to luxuriate 
among cowslips, let him go straight off to the 
haunts of human misery ; let him grapple at first- 
hand with all the problems of sin and dirt and 
disease and death ; let him grasp the hand of the 
tempted, hear the tale of the desolate, and watch 
the last struggle of the dying, and the cowslips 
will instantly lose their glamour. In one of his 
books, George Borrow describes a specially en- 
chanting Spanish landscape. "I sat down on the 
broken wall," he says, "and remained gazing and 
listening, and shedding tears of rapture; for of 
all the pleasures which a bountiful God per- 
mitteth His children to enjoy, none are so dear 
to some hearts as the music of forests and 
streams, and the view of the beauties of His 
glorious creation. An hour elapsed, and I still 
maintained my seat. . . . The sun burned my 
visage and I heeded it not, and I believe that I 
should have remained till night, buried in these 
reveries, which I confess only serve to enervate 
the mind and steal many a minute which might 
be more properly employed, had not the report 
of a gun of a fotvler in the valley caused me to 
start to my feet." What a pity that that par- 



144 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

ticular fowler is not always handy when the 
cowslips become too seductive for us! 

But Mr. Cardew was saved from the cowslips 
after all. He looked one day into the eyes of a 
dying woman, and it acted upon him as the 
report of the fowler's gun acted upon George 
Borrow. He saw for himself what Dr. TurnbuU 
had seen years before. His ministry had been 
a matter of luxuriating among cowslips. "Mr. 
Cardew resigned his living," Mark Rutherford 
tells us, "and did not preach for many years. 
Later in life he took up his work again in a far- 
distant, purely agricultural parish, but his ser- 
mons were of the simplest kind — exhortations 
to pity, consideration, gentleness, and counsels 
as to the common duties of life. He spent much 
of his time in visiting his parishioners, and in 
helping them in their difficulties. Before Mr. 
Cardew was set for evermore the face which he 
saw white and saintly that May morning when 
death had entered." Mr. Cardew had been 
delivered from the tyranny of the cowslips. 
Blessed be the sharp startling report of the 
fowler's gun! 



yi 

A CHIP OF HISTOEY 

I DO not propose to tell again the whole sad story 
of the Burke and Wills expedition. That tale — 
the most tragic and touching in the entire his- 
tory of world-wide exploration — is too familiar 
to need retelling now. But there is one phase 
of the great and thrilling episode which I have 
received at first-hand, and which, as far as I 
know, has never before been recorded. I content 
myself with being the chronicler of that solitary 
incident. I base upon it no doctrine or argu- 
ment. I state the facts precisely as they have 
been told to me. 



I was talking the other day with an old lady 
who witnessed both the jubilant departure and 
the melancholy return of the great expedition. 
It set out from Melbourne, as everybody knows, 
in August, 1860. What crowds lined the streets 
to cheer the men who were to be the first to cross 
the continent of Australia! The preparations 
had been made regardless of expense. A train 
of camels had been imported from India, and, in 

145 



146 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

contrast with the modest equipment of the 
earlier overlanders, the baggage of the party ran 
into a score of tons. My lady friend was a mem- 
ber of the Chief Secretary's party. The Hon. 
William Nicholson had invited her to accompany 
him to the camp to see the sendoff. "How bright 
and gay it all seemed!" she says. "I remember 
as clearly as though it were yesterday those last 
scenes in camp. There was the luncheon, with 
its loud hum of excited conversation and its 
repeated outbursts of laughter. There were the 
speeches, all so full of hope and confidence. I 
recall the handshakes as the camp broke up. 
Everybody crowded round the men as they pre- 
pared to mount. Their hands must have ached 
with the much shaking. ^Good luck to you I' 
everybody cried as they mounted. All eyes were 
on the camels as, with swaying heads and long 
ungainly stride, they trooped out in a long strag- 
gling procession. The air was rent with cheers 
as Burke himself rode past, his face flushed with 
elation and hope. We watched them all until 
they passed into the shadows in the distance, and 
then we turned back towards our homes in the 
city." Never, surely, did men go to their deaths 
in the desert more gaily than did these. 

II 

Burke was accompanied by Wills, Brahe, 



A CHIP OF HISTORY 147 

Gray, and King; and it is with King that my 
part of the story is concerned. These five men 
made up the first detachment of the expedition. 
The second part was to follow later and join the 
leaders at Cooper's Creek. All were then to 
proceed together .on their march across the conti- 
nent. But vexatious delays took place. The 
head of the expedition got tired of waiting at 
Cooper's Creek for the tail to crawl up. At last 
Burke decided to proceed without the balance 
of his party. Leaving Brahe at Cooper's Creek 
to welcome and bring on the belated rearguard, 
he set out with Wills, Gray, and King across the 
desert. The rest is common knowledge. How 
the four men crossed the continent; how they 
endured unutterable tortures of hunger, thirst, 
and weariness on the way back; how Burke 
almost died through eating a venomous and 
loathsome snake; how Gray actually perished; 
how the three survivors paused for twenty-four 
hours beside the grave of their comrade; how 
the loss of those precious hours eventually in- 
volved both Burke and Wills in a similar disas- 
ter; how the three men — emaciated, starving, 
and almost demented — staggered into Cooper's 
Creek a few hours after the other detachment 
had deserted it; and how both Burke and Wills 
died out in the scrub, — these are an integral part 
of our Australian records. 



148 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

III 

In Melbourne a rumour was fast gaining 
ground that all was not well with the expedition 
from which so much had been expected. The 
stories especially alarmed King's sister. King 
was the youngest member of the expedition, and 
his sister was deeply attached to him. She was 
a member of the Methodist Church in Fitzroy 
Street, which faces the St. Kilda Park gates. 
As the ugly stories became more persistent and 
circumstantial, she determined, in her distress, 
to take counsel with her minister. He, in his 
turn, laid the matter before the congregation, 
and suggested that, as King was a member of 
their church, they should hold special meetings 
for prayer, and enter into a united concert of 
intercession until the fate of the party should 
be known. The people took the matter up with 
avidity, and applied themselves to it with com- 
mendable constancy. '^During all those long 
and trying months that followed," my lady 
friend tells me, "the prayers of that congregation 
ascended like incense in private and in public to 
the Throne of the Heavenly Grace. King's sister 
was always there. How they prayed! And the 
more persistent the tales of disaster became, the 
more earnestly these people gathered together 
for prayer. The most circumstantial stories of 



A CHIP OF HISTORY 149 

the utter extinction of the exploratory party 
never daunted them. Until the worst was con- 
firmed, they clung desperately to their faith. 
Night and day they called upon God to spare 
the youth who had gone to hazard his life in the 
wilderness. The one encouraged the other; and 
long after any individual of that group would, 
by himself, have abandoned the case as hopeless, 
the gregarious instinct kept faith from flagging, 
and all together persevered where any one, if 
left to himself, would have allowed the sacred 
flame to languish. 

IV 

!Now what was happening out in the desert 
whilst those Methodists prayed in the city? We 
have seen the three men stagger back to the camp 
at Cooper's Creek, only to find that their com- 
rades had a few hours previously forsaken it. 
Has anybody ever gazed with eyes quite dry on 
the great canvas in the Melbourne Art Gallery 
that so vividly and tellingly portrays that ter- 
rible and historic scene? All the way across the 
sandy uplands the three have struggled on, ner- 
vously measuring their failing strength, and 
anxiously calculating the chances of its holding 
out until they could once more reach their base. 
And now, after an hour of indescribable excite- 
ment, they have reached it — and reached it just 



150 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

a few hours too late ! The letter left in the for- 
saken camp bore the date of the day on which 
they read it! Oh, for the four-and-twenty hours 
that they squandered at the graveside of Gray! 
But it was no time for vain regrets. What was 
to be done? They set out for home, but with 
little hope of ever reaching it. Famished and 
exhausted, they fell in with some blacks who fed 
them on roots and native foods. But they soon 
discovered that such fare, although it satisfied, 
did not nourish them ; and they were starving in 
the midst of plenty. Burke resolved to make 
one desperate effort to get back to Cooper's 
Creek. Taking King with him, he started. But, 
alas, the task was too great. Burke sank ex- 
hausted on the sands. He is the only man of 
whom I know who ever wrote an account of his 
own death. So anxious was he that his journal 
should be complete that he wrote it right down 
to that last sad scene in the desert. He asked 
King to remain with him to the end, to place in 
his dead hand the pistol with which friends in 
Melbourne had presented him, and then to leave 
him, not buried, but lying with his face to the 
stars. And so implicit was his confidence in 
King's loyalty and obedience that he described 
in his journal that last sad scene. As though 
surveying his death in retrospect, he says of that 
final act of reverent homage : 



A CHIP OF HISTORY 151 

^^King has behaved nobly. He has stayed 
icith me to the last, and placed the pistol in 
my handy leaving me lying on the surface as I 
wished/' 

I really believe that to be the most touching 
personal record ever written. Having stretched 
out his dead leader on the sands, King hurried 
back to Wills. But he, too, had paid the last 
penalty of the pathfinder. King sorrowfully 
buried him, and then sat down to map out his 
own course. Of the original party — the party 
that had crossed the continent — he alone sur- 
vived. He had buried Gray; he had left Burke 
lying in solemn state beneath the stars ; and now 
he had buried Wills. And all the time, at Fitz- 
roy Street, prayer rose like a fountain from the 
depths of a sister's soul and from a company of 
kindred spirits bound together by a covenant of 
intercession. 



The ugly stories that had startled Melbourne 
without daunting the praying band had at last 
to be reckoned with. If they were not true, what 
had become of the explorers? A relief expedition 
was organized. After a long search they one 
day came upon a strange and ragged creature, 
neither black nor white, with tangled and dis- 
hevelled hair, with gaunt form and haggard eye, 



152 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

a creature to whom speech seemed at first im- 
possible. He was wasted to a shadow, and only 
the remnants of his clothes indicated his former 
civilized condition. They soon made out that 
this was King; and in due time they gleaned 
from him, bit by bit, the terrible story of his 
experiences and adventures. Later on, they 
reverently gathered up the bones of his com- 
panions that they might be brought to Melbourne 
for honourable burial. And then — we are in 
Melbourne again, and my lady friend, who wit- 
nessed the scene, shall herself tell the story. 

"It was a bright clear day," she says, "and the 
people turned out in thousands. For hours they 
thronged in sad and sombre silence every point 
of vantage. Then, hark I the deep diapason of 
the Dead March in Saul comes sullenly up on 
the wind. To the heavy tramping of the proces- 
sional pageant — ^voices all hushed and heads 
reverently bowed — the catafalque passes. There 
are smothered sobs, and strong men brush away 
a tear. That casket contains all that is left of 
those gallant men who rode so proudly forth, 
accompanied by a cavalcade of camels, and 
encouraged by the plaudits of the people. I 
heard the cheering and the music as they went; 
I stood amidst the sorrowing crowds when the 
mournful cortege re-entered the city. It was a 
strange contrast." 



MAXIMS OF THE MUD 153 

yi 

But did that casket contain all that was left 
of them? Not quite. For down at Fitzroy Street 
King stood beside his sister, surrounded by a 
group of grateful friends. He heard the story of 
their steadfast and unflagging ministry of inter- 
cession. And as he sat among them whilst they 
returned solemn and heartfelt thanks for his 
preservation, both he and his sister found their 
hearts too full for utterance. 



VII 

MAXIMS OF THE MUD 

Hurrah for winter ! Winter brings the long eve- 
nings and the blazing fires. Winter teaches us 
the love of home and the worth of books. It is 
good to sit w^ith a great story by a roaring fire, 
surrounded by familiar faces, and to hear the 
bleak wind whistle round the house, and the pelt- 
ing rain rattle on the window. Winter brings a 
host of really good things, and among the treas- 
ures in its train I sing to-day the praise of mud. 
I always feel thankful to Tennyson for giving us 
a phrase to set over against Kuskin. Ruskin 
wrote on the ^^Ethics of the Dust,'' so Tennyson 
told us of the ^'Maxims of the Mud.'' The sen- 
tence occurs, of course, in the Idylls of the King. 
Says Vivien : 

"... gracious lessons thine. 
And maxims of the mud!'* 

"Maxims of the Mud !" That is good ! But what 
are they? Now, as a matter of fact, mud may 
teach us one of the most salutary lessons that 
our cynical generation needs. It is a common- 

154 



MAXIMS OF THE MUD 155 

place with us that "all is not gold that glitters.'^ 
It is one of our favourite platitudes that "things 
are not what they seem.'^ And these pitiable 
platitudes and cant commonplaces ring in our 
ears from morning to night, preaching their 
hideous philosophy of suspicion. And as a result 
we find ourselves analysing and criticising every- 
thing and everybody, fearful lest every angel 
that greets us should prove only a fiend in dis- 
guise. But the mud gives us a happier, perhaps 
a holier, conception of life's attitude. For what 
is mud? The dictionary says that it is "mire, 
slime, sediment, soft earth as in a puddle,'' &c. 
That is all the dictionary knows ! But let us go 
back to Kuskin. He knew something of the 
maxims of the mud as well as of the ethics of 
the dust. The great philosopher was one day 
w^alking along the streets of an English manu- 
facturing town. The weather had been very wet, 
and the mud was most abundant and tenacious. 
The thought occurred to him that he would have 
the mud analysed to find out its organic ele- 
ments. This was accordingly done, and the 
black and grimy mud was found to consist of 
sand, clay, soot, and water. Musing upon them, 
the thought occurred to him that these are the 
very substances from which our precious gems 
are formed. From the sand or silica are formed 
the onyx, chrysolite, agate, beryl, cornelian, 



156 THE OTHEE SIDE OF THE HILL 

chalcedony, jasper, sardius, amethyst; from the 
clay are formed the sapphire, ruby, emerald, and 
topaz ; from the soot is formed the diamond ; and 
the water is the same as that which, in the form 
of a dew-drop, sparkles in the heart of a rose. 
So that, in wading through the ugly mud, he 
had really been splashing among sapphires. 
Here, therefore, is the true meaning of mud. It 
tells us that the toothless epigrams of our com- 
mon chatter are true in letter but false in spirit. 
It tells us that "all is not gold that glitters," 
simply because that which glitters may be much 
more precious than gold. It tells us that "things 
are not what they seem" because they may be a 
thousandfold better than they seem. It tells us 
that, instead of being so swift to suspect the 

( angel of being a devil disguised, w^e should rather 
suspect the ragged stranger of being in truth an 

' angelic visitant. Sir Launfal found the Christ 
in the guise of a leper. The mud of life may 
be jingling with jewels. 

And, after all, even when the worst comes to 
the w^orst, the mud is rarely inevitable. There is 
usually a way round or a path across. Those who 
have threaded the narrow tracks that intersect 
the boiling mud in the volcanic region of New 
Zealand will appreciate the point. It may be 
with us as with those poor Londoners of whom 
Mark Kutherford so sadly writes : "The sky over 



MAXIMS OF THE MUD 157 

their heads is mud ; the earth is mud under their 
feet; the muddy houses stretch in long rows — 
black, gaunt, and uniform. The very Park is 
wrapped in impenetrable mud-grey/' But what 
of that? It is nevertheless easily possible for a 
man to w^alk through London, from Whitechapel 
to Kensington, without soiling his patent shoes. 
^^You needn't think there are no more mud-holes, 
matey, for there are!'' writes the brave little 
^^Lady of the Decoration." "When I see them 
ahead I climb the fence and walk around !'' Ex- 
actly ! That is a maxim of the mud well worth 
having learned. I am very fond of that great 
story that James Nasmyth tells in his Autobiog- 
raphy. When he was quite a boy he found his 
way to London. His father — a rare and saga- 
cious Scotsman — accompanied him to help him 
in the choice of lodgings. They found a very 
suitable room just behind the Surrey Theatre. 
To the younger Nasmyth's surprise, however, his 
father abruptly declined it. When they got out- 
side, James asked his father for his reasons. 
"Well," the older man replied, "did you not see 
that extremely gay bonnet lying on the bed? 
Well, James, I think that, in the vicinity of a 
theatre, that looks suspicious." And then he 
sagely added, "At all events, James, you wdll 
find that though there are many dirty roads in 
life, if you use your judgment you may alicays 



158 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

he able to find a clean crossing.'^ And so I repeat 
that, even when the worst comes to the worst, 
when the mud is everywhere, it is never quite 
inevitable. There is always a way round or a 
way through. 

And surely, if we see the muddy side of life, it 
is usually because our eyes are down to the 
ground. Is it not Kingsley who tells us that 

"Two women looked through their prison bars; 
The one saw mud, the other saw stars?'* 

The mud w^as there for both of them to see; the 
stars of God smiled down on each; but the one 
looked down in despair, while the other looked 
up in devotion. That is invariably the case. 
There is a bright light in the cloud, but men do 
not see it because they focus their attention 
upon the centre of the gloom. There is mud, and 
there are the stars. There is the blackness of 
the cloud, and there is the silver lining. You 
may feast your eyes on which you will. "I 
reached Folkestone on a rainy day, after a so- 
journ on the Continent,'^ writes Professor Hux- 
ley. "The streets of that little southern town 
were thick with mud, but," he continues, "I 
could have lain down and rolled in it; I was so 
glad that it was English mud!" So that even 
the mud need not always look muddy; and the 
fact clearly is, that the things we look upon take 



MAXIMS OF THE MUD 159 

to themselves their gay tints or their dark hues 
according to the colours of the spectacles 
through which we view them. 

But the finest word ever written about mud 
was perhaps the earliest. It is a singular and 
intensely significant fact that, even in this scien- 
tific age of ours, we invariably find that the last 
word has to be said, and the greatest pronounce- 
ments delivered, on almost every conceivable 
subject, by those holy men of old who spake as 
they were borne along by the Holy Spirit. In 
the infancy of the race there lived a sufferer 
named Job, who chanced also to be a philosopher, 
as sufferers so often are. Day by day he scanned 
his little horizon in search of comfort. One day 
his eyes rested upon the muddy banks of a stag- 
nant pond; and out of the mud the sword-like 
reeds and the tall papyrus stalks were growing. 
And he exclaimed, "Can the papyrus grow up 
without mud? Can the reed grow without the 
stagnant water?" Now the papyrus stood to the 
ancients for literature; just as the reed repre- 
sented music. And the joy of Job consisted in 
this: that the literature and the music of the 
ages seemed to him to be growing out of that 
repulsive mud about the banks of the tarn. And 
this meant much to poor Job. For it became as 
clear as noonday to him that, if the fluid mud 
could afford life to the papyrus and the reed, 



160 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

then nothing need be altogether useless in a 
world like this. There are many who feel them- 
selves to be as useless as the mud of a stagnant 
pool, and yet they may, by the quiet and gracious 
influence of their obscure lives, make it possible 
for others to be great and noble and good. The 
mud ministered to the papyrus and the reed. 
Did not Lord Shaftesbury confess that he owed 
all the power of his life and service to the silent 
Christian influence of the girl who nursed him 
as a child? The reed grew out of the stagnant 
water, the papyrus grew out of the mire. That 
was Job's cheery philosophy concerning mud. 
Emerson may well say that 

"In the mud and scum of things 
There's always, always something sings!" 

Yes, there are voices in the mud which rival the 
notes of the larks and the linnets, voices to which 
many prophets and mighty men have listened 
with rapture and inspiration. 

Just one word, and that of strictly colonial 
application, ought to be said under such a head- 
ing as this. I have often discovered, especially 
in New Zealand, among the bluegum- and the 
wattle-trees near many a fine residence, the old 
mud-hut which served as a mansion for the first 
settlers. And round about the grounds, almost 
hidden by a more pretentious and more beautiful 



MAXIMS OF THE MUD 161 

boundary-line, is the old mud wall which marked 
those early divisions of property. That mud, 
too, is eloquent, 

"For it rarely stirs the blood 
To see cities in the bud. 
And to feel a nation growing 
Out of sticky prairie mud." 

In lands like these we cannot afford to forget 
the privations and hardships endured by those 
pathfinders of a century ago. They heard the 
poet's call : 

"Far, far off the daybreak call — ^hark! how loud and clear I 

hear it wind! 
Swift! to the head of the army! — Swift, spring to your 
places, 

Pioneers! O Pioneers!" 

And they answered it. And the men and women 
of to-day, who "dwell in ceiled houses," utilizing 
their father's mud-hut as a toolhouse or a lum- 
bershed, will do well to cherish a profound rever- 
ence for those who carved a way for themselves 
through almost insuperable obstacles, and left 
a heritage of comfort and prosperity to the gen- 
eration that Cometh after. Would it seem very 
foolish if we were to raise our hats as we pass 
those old mud-huts? It is one more illustration 
of the eternal principle that "other men laboured, 
and we are entered into their labours." 



162 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

No, no, no! Let us say no hard things about 
the winter mud. If we do, the swallows and the 
beavers and the mason bees will certainly rise 
up in judgement against us. For where would 
they be without the mud of which they build to 
themselves their lovely homes? "He hath made 
everything beautiful in His time,'^ said a very 
wise man a long time ago ; and it is only because 
our eyes are dim that we fail at times to see the 
beauty of the mud. 



VIII 

CONCERNING SAMUEL CREGGAN 

Samuel Creggan is no frolic of my fancy — nor 
of any other man's. Samuel Creggan is a real 
character, or at least he was. Indeed, he is the 
original on whom one of our greatest pieces of 
fiction has been founded. It was he who sug- 
gested to Robert Louis Stevenson the conception 
of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. "I was in Steven- 
son's company/' Mr. Charles H. E. Brookfield 
tells us, in his Random Reminiscences, "I w^as 
in Stevenson's company at the moment that he 
conceived the germ of the idea. He was inveigh- 
ing against a man named Samuel Creggan with 
whom he had done business, and with whose 
methods he was dissatisfied. "He's a man who 
trades on the Samuel, ^^ Stevenson declared in 
his rather finiking, musical Scotch voice. "He 
receives you with Samuel's smile on his face; 
with the gesture of Samuel he invites you to a 
chair; with SamueVs eyes cast down in self- 
depreciation he tells you how well satisfied his 
clients have always been with his dealings; but 
every now and again you catch a glimpse of the 

163 



164 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

Creggan peeping out like a white ferret; Creg- 
gan's the real man; ^amueVs only superficial.'^ 
So much by way of introducing Samuel Creggan. 
The episode reminds me of an incident of my 
college days. A lecture was in progress, and a 
slight discussion arose. A student, whose valour 
outran his discretion, ventured to join issue with 
the professor, and had duly fortified himself with 
ponderous authorities. 

"But, sir," he observed, "does not John Angell 
James — Dr. Dale's predecessor at Birmingham 
— say so-and-so?" 

"If," replied the learned lecturer, without 
turning a hair, "if John Angell James ever said 
that, Mr. Robinson, it must have been at a mo- 
ment when the John and the James had got the 
upper hand and the Angell was asleep I" 

So there you are I It is the old, old problem. 

"Be sure," said Margaret Howe, in discussing 
the complexities of Drumsheugh's character with 
Doctor Maclure, "be sure there's twa fouk in 
every ane o's. There's twa Drumsheughs — one 
Drumsheugh ^at fought wi' the dealers an' lived 
like a miser, an' anither Drumsheugh that gied 
the money for Tammas MitchelFs wife an' nursit 
ma laddie." 

The doctor argued the other way, and stoutly 
maintained that there was but one Drumsheugh ; 
but Ian Maclaren's readers, who are in the 



CONCEKNING SAMUEL CREGGAX 165 

secret, know that, not so long before, the doctor 
himself had given Drumsheugh to his face a bit 
of his mind. 

"Drumsheugh,'' he exclaimed, "ye're the maist 
accomplished lear 'at's ever been born in Drum- 
tochty, an' — the best man a^ ever sawF^ 

And so — I repeat — there you are! But are we 
to leave it at that? Ought we not to grapple 
with the problem? In his Reminiscences , Sir 
Henry Hawkins tells of a woman whom he once 
defended. She was so utterly abandoned and 
depraved that she had undertaken to assist her 
husband and son in murdering a servant-girl. 
Whilst the two men committed the revolting 
crime, the woman held down the victim. And 
yet, when the issue of the trial was trembling in 
the balance, this same woman came forward with 
an astounding proposition. "If the trial goes 
on," she said, "we may all three get off, or we 
may all three be hanged. I wish to place my 
husband and my boy beyond the pale of so 
terrible a risk." And then she pleaded that she 
might be sent to the gallows, and that, with her 
execution, justice might be satisfied! "Here," 
as Sir Henry says, "was a strange mingling of 
evil and good — of diabolical cruelty and noble 
self-sacrifice — in one breast! I leave others to 
work out this problem of human nature." That 
is precisely what we have all been doing — leaving 



166 THE OTHEE SIDE OF THE HILL 

others to work out the problem. But it will not 
do. We must tackle it. Which is the real man 
— Samuel or Cregganf Which is the real Drum- 
sheugh — the niggardly Drumsheugh of the 
market-place or the noble-hearted Drumsheugh 
who secretly sustained the widow and the or- 
phan? It is worth spending five minutes in 
wrestling with these alluring conundrums. 

I respectfully submit that it is begging the 
question to say that there is neither a Samuel 
as such, nor a Creggan as such, but a Samuel 
Creggan one and indivisible. Robert Louis 
Stevenson's book notwithstanding, a man cannot 
be both Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. He must be 
acting a part in the one character or in the other. 
If, peering down into the fearsome recesses of 
this soul of mine, I sometimes catch glimpses, 
not of one man, but of what appears to be two, 
how can I determine which of those two is really 
and truly myself? That is the question. 

And in casting about for some clue to this 
most intricate maze, I came upon that man to 
whom the Saviour said, "If thou canst believe, 
all things are possible to him that believeth! 
And straightway the man cried out and said 
with tears, Lord, I Relieve: help Thou mine un- 
belief/' 

Lord, I helieve — it is the voice of Samuel the 
Saint! 



CONCERNING SAMUEL CREGGAN 167 

Eelp Thou mine unbelief — it is the voice of 
Creggan the Sceptic I 

Now which is the real man, Samuel or Creg- 
gan, Saint or Sceptic? The question is of first- 
class importance, because no prayer so exactly 
expresses the cry of the universal heart. It is 
my prayer; it is your prayer: it is everybody's 
prayer. In the biography of Bishop Westcott 
there is an affecting description of Dr. West- 
cott's visit to the death-bed of Bishop Lee, of 
Manchester. "People quote various words of the 
Lord," said the dying prelate to his distinguished 
visitor, "people quote various words of the Lord 
as containing the sum of the gospel — the Lord's 
Prayer, the Sermon on the Mount, and the like; 
but to me the essence of the gospel is in simpler 
and shorter terms — 'Fear not; only 'believe.' '' 
And then, as he reflected a moment, the feeling 
swept over him that those words were not as 
simple as they seemed. He was frightened by 
the frailty of his faith. 

'^ 'Only believe/ '^ he repeated, " 'only believe, 
— ah, Westcott, mark that 'only J '^ 

Tears filled his eyes. "Only believe.^' But did 
he believe? And at last his soul found expres- 
sion and consolation in the old, agonizing cry, 
"Lord, I believe: help Thou mine unbelief'' 

But we are still staring at the problem instead 
of solving it. 



168 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

Lordy r believe — it is the voice of Samuel the 
Saint. 

Help Thou mine unbelief — it is the voice of 
Creggan the Sceptic. Which is the true man? 
Is there any clue? I think there is. 

When faith and unbelief are struggling in my 
soul as they struggled in the soul of the man who 
looked through his tears into the Saviour's face, 
and as they struggled in the soul of the dying 
bishop, the question is, "Where do I myself 
stand?" Faith and Unbelief are at war within 
me ; but I myself do not consist of Faith and Un- 
belief. My personality is greater than my faith, 
greater than my doubt. Where do / stand? Do 
I range myself alongside my faith, or do I range 
myself alongside my doubt? Am I with Samuel 
or am I with Creggan? The fine thing about the 
man in the gospel story, and about the dying 
bishop, is that they took their stand beside their 
faith, and put their doubt from them as a thing 
to be pitied and deplored. 

Lordy I believe — it is the identification of the 
Man himself with his faith. 

Help Thou mine unbelief — it is the repudia- 
tion by the Man himself of his doubt. 

Everything hinges there. A man may identify 
himself with his faith and repudiate his unbelief ; 
this is the triumph of Samuel. "This is the vic- 
tory that overcometh the world." Or, on the 



CONCERNING SAMUEL CREGGAN 169 

other hand, he may identify himself with his 
unbelief and renounce his faith; this is the 
triumph of Creggan. That is what Pliable did. 
Christian and he fell together into the Slough 
of Despond. Let Bunyan tell the story : 

"Here, therefore, they wallowed for a time^ 
being grievously bedaubed with the dirt. 

"Then said Pliable, 'Ah, Neighbour Christian, 
where are we now?' 

a ^Truly,' said Christian, 'I do not know.' 

"At that. Pliable began to be offended, and, 
giving a desperate struggle or two, got out of the 
mire on that side of the slough which was next 
to his own house. So away he went, and Chris- 
tian saw him no more. Wherefore Christian was 
left to wallow in the slough alone, but still he 
endeavoured to struggle to that side of the slough 
which was farther from his own house, and next 
to the Wicket-Gate ; the which he did." 

Here, then, with his usual sure and skilful 
touch, Bunyan probes to the very root of the 
whole matter : Christian and Pliable alike floun- 
dered in the bog; just as we all alike find our- 
selves simultaneously the subjects of Faith and 
the victims of Unbelief. But here was the differ- 
ence. Pliable, identifying himself with the 
basest instincts within his breast, and repudiat- 
ing the faith that had called him out on pilgrim- 
age, turned sordidly to that side of the slough 



170 THE OTHEK SIDE OF THE HILL 

that was next to Ms own house ; whilst Christian, 
identifying himself with his pilgrim spirit, and 
repudiating the promptings that suggested a re- 
treat, turned wistfully towards the opposite bank. 
It is a great day in the life of Samuel Creggan 
when he discovers that his soul is the tenant 
of irreconcilable incompatibilities. There is the 
Samuel element, and there is the Creggan ele- 
ment. Which shall he repudiate? With which 
shall he identify himself? He will never, of 
course, get rid of either. He will be Samuel 
Creggan to his dying day ; and Samuel Creggan 
will be carved upon his cofiin. If he takes sides 
with the Creggan against the Samuel, he will 
find, whenever he glances over his shoulder, that 
Samuel is following all the way in the fond hope 
that some day the man, his master, will tire of 
the baseness of Creggan, and give his reason and 
his conscience a chance. And if, on the other 
hand, the man identifies himself with Samuel, 
and dismisses Creggan, Creggan will steal along 
behind him, like a dog with his tail between his 
legs, hoping against hope to be one day called 
to his master's side. A man may decide for 
Unbelief, but Faith will always follow him, long- 
ing for a happier day. A man may decide for 
Faith ; but Doubt w ill stealthily dog his footsteps 
to the last. Samuel and Creggan will never be 
very far apart. 



CONCERNING SAMUEL CREGGAN 171 

Still, it makes all the difference as to which 
of the two walks proudly by his master's side, 
and which follows, in disgrace, behind him. 

^^I believe F' cries the man in the Gospel 
bravely. 

^^I believe!^' cries Bishop Lee, on his death- 
bed, cheerily. 

^^I believe!^' cry I; and all my soul is in that 
glorious credo. 

^^My unbelief!^' cries the man in the Gospel 
sadly. 

^^Mij unbelief F^ cries Bishop Lee, on his death- 
bed, tearfully. 

^^My unbelief r cry I; and I hang my head in 
shame as I say it. 

^^Lordy I believe; help Thou mine unbelief!^* 
It is Christian in the slough ; but it is Christian 
in the slough with his back to the City of De- 
struction, and with his face towards the City 
Celestial. 



IX 

PUNCH AND JUDY 

When I reached home last night, a little tired, I 
threw myself into a cosy arm-chair that the angel 
of the house had prepared for me beside the fire, 
and picked up what I took to be an illustrated 
magazine. It turned out, however, to be the 
Academy Pictures; and, to my delight, it fell 
open at a really fine engraving of Punch and 
Judy. Here is the village green, with the famous 
show set up beneath the trees. Everything is 
simply perfect, particularly the expressions on 
the faces of the country folk. Nothing could 
have been more restful than to survey this sea 
of smiles ; and by the time I had finished with the 
picture I felt as a man feels after a good sleep 
and a refreshing cup of tea. 

Now wherein lies the secret of the perennial 
fascination and universal appeal of Punch and 
Judy? Look at this motley crowd on this village 
green. The artist has sampled humanity at all 
points, and yet every face is brightened by the 
antics of the puppets. I am afraid I should think 
the less of a man's religion if I discovered that 

172 



PUNCH AND JUDY 173 

Punch and Judy held no place in his affections. 
As I glance around my study-shelves, and scan 
the names of my favourite authors, I like to 
think that they were men who could laugh at 
Punch and Judy. If I caught one of them scowl- 
ing at Punch and Judy, I should certainly hence- 
forth scowl at him. Dickens introduces the 
showman scores of times ; but he always handles 
the subject lovingly ; and there is abundant evi- 
dence that he always paused to see the fun when- 
ever he heard the strains of the showman's flute. 
And if I turn from the shelves that hold my 
fiction to the more sombre departments of my 
library it is just the same. Here, for example, 
are the works of Professor Drummond. "No 
power on earth," says Ian Maclaren, "could drag 
Henry Drummond past a Punch and Judy show 
— the ancient, perennial, ever-delightful theatre 
of the people — in which, each time of attendance, 
he detected new points of interest.'' And here 
is one of the last glimpses that we catch of him. 
Mr. Hunter Boyd met him at the General 
Assembly in Edinburgh not long before he died. 
He went with hundreds of others to hear Dr. 
Parker's celebrated address in the Assembly 
Hall. "I noticed," said Mr. Boyd, "that while 
the rest of the company hurried quickly to the 
Assembly Hall, he inclined to linger in Princes 
Street and on the Mound. At the foot of the 



174 THE OTHEK SIDE OF THE HILL 

Mound there was a Punch and Judy show. He 
stopped and looked at me attentively. I knew he 
meant to say, ^Shall we miss Parker or shall we 
miss Punch and Judy?' How he loved to see 
the show and to watch the faces of the crowd!" 
I did not pause to draw attention to Ian Mac- 
laren's own tell-tale adjectives — "the ancient, 
perennial, ever-delightful theatre of the people" 
— but if they do not imply that he had himself 
fallen under the magic of Punch's wand, I should 
make a very poor private detective. 

One could go on like this indefinitely, but I 
must be permitted to sample the bookshelves in 
yet another corner. A Doctor of Divinity, if you 
please ; and a Scottish Doctor of Divinity at that. 
There was no nonsense about Thomas Guthrie: 
a doctor of the good old school was he. And 
here, at the close of his life-story, I find two 
pregnant passages. His great ministry is 
finished, and every utterance now is born of rich 
and ripe experience. And out of that wealthy 
experience, I find him talking lovingly of Punch 
and Judy I The passage occurs in one of his last 
letters. He dreads lest, as the end approaches, 
he should lose the buoyancy and sprightliness 
of his faith. "I hope," he writes, "I hope I may 
ever be child enough to enjoy Punch and Judy, 
or anything that brings a sunlight smile to chil- 
dren's faces." When, later on, the old doctor 



PUNCH AND JUDY 175 

lay a-dying, they asked him what he would like 
them to sing to him. "Just sing me a bairn's 
hymn !" he replied. And somehow I am dimly 
conscious of a vague association of ideas connect- 
ing that letter about Punch and Judy with that 
dying utterance. 

Punch and Judy prove conclusively that we 
are all in love with life. Why are we so fond of 
nursery-rhymes, fairy-tales, love-stories, novels, 
plays, and all the rest of it? There is only one 
answer possible. We love them for the sake of 
the life that is in them. Give a child a cake; 
and, if he likes it, he will cry for all the cakes 
in the confectioner's shop. It is his way of pay- 
ing a compliment to the cake that he is eating. 
And in the same way I have so thoroughly 
relished the little bit of life that was doled out 
to me that I find myself clamouring for all the 
lives that I can see. I want the life of Humpty- 
Dumpty and Jack the Giant Killer; I want the 
life of the lovely princess and the fairy god- 
mother; I want the life of the beautiful heroine 
in the romance, and I want the life of the gallant 
hero in the novel. I am delighted when some- 
body offers to tell me a story, because I know 
that it will present still another phase of the 
thing I love so well. The same hunger underlies 
my passion for biography, and even my fondness 
for the Bible. The Bible is the divinest book in 



176 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

any language — and the humanest. It differs 
from all other sacred writings in one essential 
particular. It is so throbbingly, pulsingly per- 
sonal. It is the story of human struggle, hu- 
man suffering, human experience, and human 
triumph. It appeals to my love of life. It is 
full of stories. My love of such things is like 
my love of the kaleidoscope. Once I have put 
it to my eye, it is very difficult to lay it down. 
You are so entranced by the lovely mosaics that 
you have already seen that you feel that you 
must turn the glass just once more and see an- 
other — and another — and another. Life has been 
so sweet to me that I like to mark the relish 
with which others tell of their enjoyment of it. 
Life has played so many pranks on me that I 
love to stand and see the grotesque fashion in 
which she handles Punch and Judy. 

I sometimes fancy, too, that Punch and Judy 
offer us a striking instance of the grouping of 
life's affinities. Punch always gets Judy, and 
Judy always gets Punch. Jack always gets Jill, 
and Jill always gets Jack. Not by the most 
frantic flight of fancy can you conceive of Punch 
and Jill going up the hill to get a pail of water ; 
or of Jack and Judy playing their parts in the 
famous show. The thing never works out that 
way. It is always Punch and Judy ; it is always 
Jack and Jill. It is never Jack and Judy ; never 



PUNCH AND JUDY 177 

Punch and Jill. There are certain magnetic 
forces at work, unseen and only dimly under- 
stood, that arrange such matters for us. This 
aspect of the question is the more striking if we 
remember the origin and significance of Punch. ~f- 
For Punch and Judy is the last lingering sur- 
vival of the old mediaeval miracle play. In those 
dark ages the drama was born, and was born in 
church. The priests thought to instruct the 
people by performing in character the sacred 
stories. Punch and Judy, are, of course, Pontius 
and Judas. Punch, as a Koman governor, speaks 
with a foreign accent, has a Roman nose, and a 
hump on his back. The hump grew out of the 
tradition that, after the crucifixion of the 
Saviour, Pontius w^as haunted by the devil, who 
sat on his back to the end. In the subsequent 
disgrace and exile of Pilate, he was followed day 
and night by his dog. And so Toby appears in 
the Punch and Judy show, his name being de- 
rived from the dog Tobias in the Apocrypha. ^ 
Judas has been transformed into a woman, partly 
to suit the exigencies of the play, and partly be- 
cause he wore a flowing robe after the fashion of 
the East. So there you have the whole story. 
And, seen in that light, what could be more strik- 
ing than the association of Punch and Judy, of 
Pontius Pilate and Judas Iscariot? What was 
there to bring together Pontius, the haughty 



178 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

official of Imperial Rome, and Judas, the ob- 
scure Galilean peasant? Nationality, geography, 
racial prejudice, rank, temperament — everything 
fought against any such conjunction. And yet, 
and yet, Punch belongs to Judy, and Judy be- 
longs to Punch, and so it came to pass that, in 
the culminating tragedy of this world's story, 
Judas guiltily betrayed the Saviour and Pontius 
guiltily condemned Him, and Pontius and Judas 
— Punch and Judy — ^have been indissolubly asso- 
ciated through all the ages since. 

Surely, too, the perennial popularity of Punch 
and Judy is an evidence of the latent chivalry of 
the race. A mob may not be mealy-mouthed in 
matters of morals ; yet, in the tales that it reads 
and the plays that it patronizes, it dearly loves 
to see vice put to shame, and virtue made trium- 
phant. The villain must always go to the felon's 
cell, and the hero must always lead the fair 
heroine to the altar. The most debased crowd in 
the world would insist upon that ; and it is inter- 
esting to seek a reason for their inflexible de- 
mand. Is it not a proof of the enthronement of 
conscience? However far action may lag behind 
knowledge, it shows that the recognition of right 
and wrong is there. However besmirched the 
life itself may have been, there remain in the 
soul regnant voices that will not speak falsely. 
They will not lower the purity of their lofty 



PUNCH AND JUDY 179 

standard. And thus it strangely happens that 
the man who has himself dipped his fingers into 
his neighbour's pocket vociferously applauds the 
capture of a thief; and a man who has violated 
the seventh commandment cheers to the echo the 
ultimate vindication of outraged virtue. 

And, travelling along this line, we come upon 
the crowd laughing immoderately at a Punch 
and Judy show. And in their laughter I detect 
a profound spiritual significance. It is what 
Victor Hugo would call the laughter of the soul 
at itself. For Punch is Pontius. The man who 
laughs at Pontius may all the while be crucifying 
to himself the Son of God afresh and putting 
Him to an open shame; but his laughter is an 
unconscious witness to the fact that, in his 
deepest soul, he recognizes that the rejection of 
the Christ is worthy of the derision of the ages. 
Judy is Judas. And he who laughs at Judas, 
though he may himself be selling his Lord for 
thirty pieces of silver, witnesses by his laughter 
to the eternal contempt that such a betrayal 
deserves. 



CHARADES 

They were playing at charades — those children 
of Galilee — and the Lord stood in the midst of 
them. Perhaps more often than we think He 
stands among the children at their play. Robert 
Louis Stevenson said as much years ago : 

"When children are playing alone on the green. 
In comes the Playmate that never was seen, 
When children are happy, and lonely, and good, 
The Friend of the Children comes out of the wood. 

"Nobody heard Him, and nobody saw. 
His is a picture you never could draw. 
But He's sure to be present, abroad or at home. 
When children are happy or playing alone." 

At any rate, it is very pleasant to think of the 
world's saddest and most pathetic Figure ten- 
derly watching the frolics in the Galilean mar- 
ket-place. Around Him swept the storm of romp 
and revelry. The furious fun and mad merri- 
ment made their own peculiar appeal to Him. 
And in those rich and wondrous after-years, that 
riot of exuberant child-like and mad-cap laughter 
came unexpectedly back upon Him. ^^Where- 

180 



CHARADES 181 

unto shall I liken the men of this generation?" 
He asked Himself one day. ^^W hereunto?'^ He 
seems to have exhausted all His usual similes, 
and stands hesitating and perplexed. Could He 
not liken men, as we do, to soldiers in the strenu- 
ous clash of battle, or to labourers stained with 
the sweat and dust of toil? No; these figures 
will not fit. It is the old scene in the playground 
that rushes back upon Him. He remembers the 
charades. "This generation is like unto children 
sitting in the market-place and calling unto their 
fellows and saying, We have piped unto you and 
ye have not danced; we have mourned unto you 
and ye have not lamented.' " The charades, be- 
neath His touch, flashed into parable. They re- 
flected the three greatest spiritual tragedies of 
His age and of ours. Men are very silly, and 
very superficial, and very sulky. 



Jesus was painfully impressed by the silliness 
of men. Their levity grated upon Him. They 
could only be likened to children romping in the 
market-place. And the market-place was no 
place for such sport. In the market-place the 
stern conflict of commerce was being waged. 
Competition was keen. Hard-headed men were 
constantly on the alert for the cheapest market 
in which to buy and the dearest in which to sell. 



182 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

In the market-place fortunes were made and lost. 
Frugal house- wives wrestled there with the press- 
ing problems of their domestic purchases. Men 
were made and men were ruined in the market- 
place. But what did boys and girls care? They 
scampered helter-skelter, hither and thither. 
They made the old place ring again with their 
peals of merry laughter. To them the market- 
place was a playground; and it was nothing 
more. And Jesus told the fathers that they were 
no better than their boys. They treated life with 
levity. They were like children playing in the 
market-place. They lacked the undertone of 
seriousness. They were incapable of gravity. 
Nothing worse could be said of any people. 

I fancy that if some old Galilean who listened 
to that stinging rebuke could revisit Christendom 
to-day he would suggest to us that his generation 
held no monopoly in levity. He would look upon 
the greatest Christian peoples of the modern 
world. And then he would think of the compara- 
tive simplicity of Galilean tastes. And he would 
bequeath the Master's rebuke to our generation 
as being much more worthy of it than his own. 
Nothing in human experience is more exasperat- 
ing than for a man, to whom you are speaking 
on matters of weight and urgency, to smirk, and 
grin, and leer whilst you are doing so. We need 
dread nothing more than the horror of becoming 



CHARADES 183 

a smirking people; a nation from which high 
seriousness has vanished and in which solemnity 
has decayed; a volatile, frivolous, giggling com- 
munity ; a generation like unto children romping 
in the market-place. 

II 

Jesus was painfully impressed by the super- 
ficiality of men. Even when they did at last 
appear to be serious, it was really only mimicry 
and make-believe. They were "just pretending." 
As He stood in the market-place that day He 
heard the pipes and saw the dance. But it was 
only an imaginary wedding. Again He heard 
the melancholy mourning and the plaintive wails 
of lamentation. But it was just for fun. It was 
not a real funeral. It was all a charade. And 
the pathos of it all is that mimicry never gets 
beyond the mere external drapery of the thing 
it imitates, and usually makes itself ridiculous 
in consequence. Macaulay says that, after the 
death of Byron, men sought to persuade them- 
selves that they possessed his genius by adopting 
his style of necktie. After the Restoration, men 
attempted to recall the Puritanism of Milton and 
of Cromwell by talking through the nose with 
the same horrible whine which had characterized 
some of the most distinguished leaders of the 
Commonwealth! The students of Melanchthon 



184 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

emulated their master in the unevenness of his 
shoulders! And aspiring young tenors who 
adored Sims Reeves used to ape his peculiar way 
of stepping on to the platform! That was as 
far as these poor imitators could get. And, in 
exactly the same way, the make-believe weddings 
in the market-place only got as far as the out- 
ward trappings of the ceremony. The depths of 
the soul were not broken up; the poignant pas- 
sions were not stirred; the strange admixture 
of bridal smiles and tears were conspicuously 
absent. And the make-believe funerals copied 
only the outward pageantry of the solemn obse- 
quies. The tortured cry of a lonely soul, the 
quivering anguish of a breaking heart, were not 
there. That is the mockery of superficiality. 

"That boy," said the doctor, in one of Myrtle 
Reed's best-known stories, "that boy has genius.'' 

"Possibly,'^ replied the great music-master, to 
whom the remark had been made, "but he has no 
heart, no feeling. He is all technique F^ 

Is it not often so? Two men sit side by side in 
the same pew; two women sing the same pieces 
in the same choir; two brothers walk up to the 
house of God in company; two sisters kneel to- 
gether at the same family altar. In each case 
they seem so much alike. But they only seem so 
much alike. The one is as deeply moved as the 
bride at a wedding, or the widow at a funeral. 



CHARADES 185 

The other is acting a part. It is all technique! 
That was Christ's awful meaning when He spoke 
of the charades. There is no sin like the sin 
of seeming. 

Ill 

Jesus was painfully impressed by the sulkiness 
of men. There were certain children in the 
market-place who, when the game of weddings 
was proposed, danced as soon as their com- 
panions piped. There were others who, when 
funerals were suggested, wailed as soon as their 
companions mourned. But there was a third 
class. There were those who complained that 
weddings were far too gay and that funerals were 
far too glum. They would respond neither to the 
piping nor the mourning. It was unto these 
peevish and petulant children that Jesus likened 
the men of His generation. Like the children 
who would not play at funerals, they would not 
respond to John, who came fasting. And, like 
the children who would not play at weddings, 
they would not respond to Jesus, who came feast- 
ing. This third class represents the Church's 
everlasting problem. There are those who are 
impressed by a stately liturgy and an ornate 
ritual. There are others again who are only 
affected by severe and Puritanical simplicity. 
But what of those who respond to neither? There 



186 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

are those who are allured by the wooing note of 
Barnabas ; and there are others who are alarmed 
by the warning note of Boanerges. But what 
of those who can be neither coaxed nor cowed? 
That is the problem that breaks a minister's 
heart. It broke the heart of Jesus. "It was 
amazing to me/' Mark Rutherford confides to us 
in his Autobiography y "that I could pour myself 
out as I did, and yet make so little impression." 
And, in his Deliverance^ he reverts to the same 
agonizing mystery. "The tradesman who makes 
a good coat enjoys the satisfaction of having 
fitted and pleased his customer; a bricklayer, if 
he be diligent, is rewarded by knowing that his 
master understands his value ; but I never knew 
what it was to receive a single response." 

And what then? The Master's application of 
His graceful parable to the irresponsive souls 
who had answered neither to the austere monas- 
ticism of John, nor to the tender melody of His 
own message, is unmistakable. We, too, are face 
to face with colossal silliness, amazing super- 
ficiality, stupendous sulkiness. But we are to 
preserve our sanity. We must not become 
hysterical on the one hand nor nonchalant on the 
other. In the presence of the world's appalling 
apathy, we are not to adopt the language of 
despair, as though the great victorious note of 
the gospel had been prematurely struck. Nor, 



CHARADES 187 

on the other hand, are we to reconcile ourselves 
to things as they are, accepting those conditions 
as final and irrevocable. The progress of the 
Church is to be neither a dirge nor a dance. The 
rollicking optimist and the cheerless pessimist 
have both lost their way. Jesus was neither. We 
are to avoid both Scylla and Charybdis. We 
must be songful, but we must be serious. We are 
to look out on the world, as He did, with triumph 
in our hearts and tears in our eyes. And — who 
knows? — it may yet come to pass that the 
Church's dauntless certainty of conquest, and her 
tender eloquence of tears, will impress even the 
thoughtless children who are playing in the 
market-place. 



PART III 



^^MILLIONS ! MILLIONS !" 

A FEW friends of mine made it their custom to 
meet together for prayer very early on Sunday 
mornings. At length there came a pouring wet 
Sunday morning — a perfect drencher. When 
one of these sturdy souls came down to the ordi- 
nary service at eleven o'clock that morning, he 
was playfully saluted by a weaker brother, who 
usually admired his friend's sunrise devotion 
from within the security of his blankets. "Ah !" 
he said; "and how many did you have at early 
prayers this morning?" But the good man was 
not to be shamed in that way. He is a rather 
rough diamond and no scholar, but he is one 
of Nature's most perfect gentlemen, and an un- 
conscious poet into the bargain. "Oh," he replied, 
"it was grand! We had all the Shining Ones 
there this morning!^' I thought the reply one 
of the most adroit and charming that I had ever 
heard. It reminded me irresistibly of that fine 
entry in Grant Duff's Notes from a Diary. An 
old priest was trudging home through the deep 
snow after early Mass on the morning of All 
Saints' Day, when a man stopped him to ask how 

191 



192 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

many had been at his service. "Millions! 
Millions!" he replied. Farther on Grant Duff 
again refers to the incident, and quotes a com- 
ment of a friend: ^That is a lovely story about 
all the saints at Mass ; quite lovely. It reminds 
me of a line I always liked : 

'Multitudes, multitudes stood up in bliss.' 

One imagines them as a field standing thick with 
corn.'' 

Now these two stories, one from my own ex- 
perience and one from literature, have come to 
my mind with quite captivating force to-day, 
for it is All Saints' Day. It is one of the few 
days of the Christian year for which I can get 
up much enthusiasm. I would not miss it from 
my holy days on any account whatever. I have 
a great deal of sympathy with James Eussell 
Lowell : 

"One day, of holy days the crest, 

I, though no Churchman, love to keep, 
All Saints' — the unknown good that rest 

In God's still memory, folded deep: 
The bravely dumb that did their deed, 

And scorned to blot it with a name. 
Men of the plain, heroic breed, 

That loved heaven's silence more than fame." 

I 

A man must be very blind to spiritual values 



"MILLIONS! MILLIONS!" 193 

if he sees no stern practical significance about 
this matter of the Millions. The writer of the 
Epistle to the Hebrews saw something far more 
than sentiment in it. He reels off that soul- 
stirring list of historic memories which we know 
as the eleventh chapter — "the Westminster 
Abbey of the Bible," as Dr. Jowett calls it — 
and then he thinks of my friend's Shining Ones, 
the old priest's Millions. "Wherefore," he adds, 
"seeing we also are compassed about with so 
great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every 
weight, and the sin which doth so easily beset 
us, and let us run with patience the race that is 
set before us." The imagery is vivid and clear. 
The great cloud of witnesses suggests the spa- 
cious amphitheatre, with its tens of thousands 
of spectators, rising tier above tier like an encir- 
cling cloud and overawing the performer as he 
first enters the arena. But a deeper meaning 
lies beneath the surface. For the word implies 
that the spectators include those who have 
already played their part in the arena. The com- 
batant of the morning is the onlooker of the 
afternoon. And may not the very presence and 
plaudits of the hero of the morning, as he watches 
the contest of the afternoon, inspire the wrestlers 
and the runners to more strenuous effort? That 
was Loweirs thought. Or, at least, it was Mrs. 
Lowell's. Perhaps her poems are not as well 



194 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

known as they deserve to be. At any rate, she 
says in one of them : 

"If Death uplift me, even thus should I, 
Companioned by the silver spirits high 
And stationed on the sunset's crimson towers, 
Bend longing over earth's broad stretch of bowers, 
To where my love beneath their shades might lie; 
For I should weary of the endless blue, 
Should weary of my ever-growing light. 
If that one soul, so beautiful and true. 
Were hidden by earth's vapours from my sight." 

II 

The action of the hero, with his laurels on 
his brow, in taking his seat among the spectators, 
obviously means that the performance is not yet 
over. He has done his part, but his part is not 
the only part. He now looks on to see others do 
theirs. And the respect that is everywhere 
shown to him, and the coveted green leaves upon 
his brow, are an evidence to those in the ring 
that victory is possible. Heroism did not cease 
with his coronation. Which reminds me of a 
story, and a good one. It occurs in the life of 
Wendell Phillips, the heroic conqueror of slav- 
ery. They had been sitting by the fire, the old 
hero of a hundred fights on one side of the hearth, 
and a young friend on the other. The younger 
man never understood how that memorable eve- 
ning slipped so swiftly away. Memory had 
flushed the cheeks of the veteran abolitionist; 



"MILLIONS! MILLIONS P 195 

the heroic days of the long ago came rushing back 
upon him ; his tongue was unloosed ; and "the old 
man eloquent" completely lost himself in the 
thrilling recital. The youth sat enthralled. At 
last he recognized, with a start, that the evening 
was gone. He rose to leave. 

"Mr. Phillips," he said, as he took the old 
man's hand, "if I had lived in your time, I think 
/ should have been heroic too I" 

The veteran, who had accompanied his young 
visitor to the door, was roused. He pointed down 
the street, and drew the attention of his com- 
panion to the glaring saloons and to all the 
flaunting indications of audacious vice. His 
voice was tremulous with indignation. 

"Young man," he said, "you are living in mj 
time, and in God's time! Be sure of this: No 
man could have been heroic then who is not 
heroic now. Good-night !" 

Ill 

Those millions of eyes are like a sky full of 

stars. There is something very searching about 

them. They seem at times to look us through 

and through. I do not wonder that Tennyson 

asks, in In Memoriam : 

"Do we indeed desire the dead 

Should still be near us at our side? 
Is there no baseness we would hide? 
No inner vileness that we dread?" 



196 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

They remind us that we have something to live 
up to. "If you lose what I've won/' cried the 
old Prussian, Frederick Wilhelm, to his son, "I'll 
laugh at you out of my grave!" And, in the 
great after days, the old man's eyes seemed to be 
ever upon the Emperor as he passed from victory 
to victory. I like to think of those Scandinavian 
veterans who, when a young recruit was buckling 
on his armour for the first time, took him to the 
halls of his ancestors. As he gazed at one rugged 
old face after another, some scarred laureate 
would recite the exploits of those heroic fore- 
fathers. And as the youth heard story after 
story of splendid sacrifice and doughty deed, he 
would feel his soul glow with intense desire to 
prove himself worthy of so valiant a descent. In 
his Yenetia, Lord Beaconsfield, too, tells of the 
old tutor who, having completed the education 
of a young heir of a noble house, took him, before 
parting from him, to the picture-gallery of the 
castle. And then, having told his pupil of the 
virtues that had distinguished all his line, he 
implored him to acquit himself as a worthy son 
of such worthy sires. It is the same thought; 
it is the philosophy of the Millions; it is the in- 
spiration of the Shining Ones. We are com- 
passed about by a great cloud of witnesses. The 
heroes are looking on ; and the very fact that they 
are looking on shows that there is still something 



"MILLIONS! MILLIONS!'^ 197. 

for which they look. They account the world's 
record of valour unfinished until our part has 
been played. Their eyes are strained to behold 
the deeds with which we match their splendid 
records. 

And surely there is something very inspiring 
about that sky full of eyes! There is nothing 
supercilious, nothing hypercritical, nothing con- 
temptuous about those enthroned spectators. 
What a pleasant thing it is at a good cricket 
match to see the heroes of a previous generation 
delighting in the prowess of the players of to- 
day! And, speaking of cricket, I am reminded 
of a good story; is it not Henry Drummond's? 
An old county cricketer had lost his sight. He 
was stone blind. And it was the grief of all his 
days that he could not see his own boy play the 
great game. The son became the crack bat of 
the school team, and used to lead his father to 
the ground. But, beyond hearing with inexpres- 
sible delight the comments of the crowd on his 
boy's play, he got small satisfaction from it. One 
day he suddenly died. The following Saturday 
an important match was to be played. Other 
members of the team, who knew of the lad's affec- 
tion for his blind father, took it for granted that 
their best bat would be absent. But, to their 
surprise, he strolled down in his flannels, and 
presented himself for play. And he batted that 



198 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

day as he had never done before. He snicked 
and cut and pulled and drove with magnificent 
audacity and judgement. His companions were 
bewildered. He rattled up a century in no time, 
and won the match with ease. After the applause 
of the pavilion had died down, he turned to a 
comrade and asked : 

"How did I play?'' 

^^Never better ; you outdid yourself. What did 
it all mean?" 

"Why, you see," said the young hero, "i^ was 
the first time my father ever saw me hat!'^ 

It would be a pity to labour the point after a 
story like that. Napoleon knew what he was 
doing when, in his Egyptian campaign, he 
pointed to the Pyramids and cried, ^^ Soldiers, 
forty centuries look down upon youF^ It must 
be a sluggish soul that cannot respond to such an 
appeal. 

And so I sit here in my study on this All 
Saints' Dslj, and think of the Millions. 

"Saints of the early dawn of Christ, 

Saints of imperial Rome, 
Saints of the cloistered Middle Age, 

Saints of the modern home; 
Saints of the soft and sunny east. 

Saints of the frozen seas. 
Saints of the isles that wave their palms 

In the fair Antipodes; 



"MILLIONS! MILLIONS!" 199 

Saints of the marts and busy streets. 

Saints of the squalid lanes. 
Saints of the silent solitudes. 

Of the prairies and the plains; 
Saints who were wafted to the skies 

In the torment robe of flame. 
Saints who have graven on men's thoughts 

A monumental name." 

Yes, my friend is right ; without a doubt all the 
Shining Ones are here this morning ! 



II 

WHITE ELEPHANTS 

I CANNOT exactly claim the reverence and atten- 
tion which we all accord without stint or ques- 
tion to the hunter of big game. I have never 
shaken the dust of civilization from my feet and 
set off for the interior of Africa, the jungles of 
Bengal, the Western prairies, or the hills of 
Ceylon. I have, however, read all that Sir 
Samuel Baker, Major Stevenson-Hamilton, Mr. 
Stewart White, and other big-game hunters have 
to say; and some of the most exciting moments 
I have ever known have been spent in their very 
excellent company. It is great sport to sit in 
a cosy chair in a sheltered corner of a shady 
verandah and to experience, one by one, all the 
glorious thrills and indescribable sensations of 
the chase. You hear the distant trumpeting of 
the herd; you share all the hopes and fears of 
the hunter as he creeps nearer and nearer to his 
quarry ; you hear the great trees bend and break 
as the angry monsters rush and charge; and 
then, with a flush of excitement that almost 
makes your heart stand still, you see the huge 
beast roll over beneath the sportsman's magnifi- 
cent aim. This is as near as I have ever got — 

200 



WHITE ELEPHANTS 201 

or ever expect to get — to adventure of this heroic 
kind. Yet I have been doing a little big-game 
hunting on mv own account. I have been on the 
track of white elephants; and certainly I have 
no reason to complain of lack of sport. None 
of the herds that I have ever seen described by 
visitors to Africa or Ceylon can compare with 
those upon which I have come in the course of 
my recent quest. 

Let me, after the approved fashion of literary 
sportsmen, begin by describing the creature. 
And here the subject becomes instantly compli- 
cated, for there are, I must explain, several 
varieties of the beast. There are white elephants 
and white elephants. In its original setting the 
term connoted "a gift which occasions the recip- 
ient more trouble than it is worth; a white 
elephant being a common gift of the Kings of 
Siam to a courtier they wished to ruin." Nobody 
would suggest that, in this sinister form, the 
phenomenon is particularly conspicuous among 
us. At the opposite pole, it may be reasonably 
maintained that all the operations of the ordi- 
nary commercial world resolve themselves into 
a perfectly innocuous bartering and marketing 
of w^hite elephants. Here is a grocer with tons 
of sugar in his cellar. What does he want with 
tons of sugar? Considered only in relation to 
himself, his stock is a white elephant; but he 



202 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

deliberately finds houseroom for that white ele- 
phant in order that he may serve his customers 
and enrich himself in the process. The same 
thought inevitably occurs to one on being shown 
the prodigious stores of any other tradesman. 
The miles of neatly folded materials on the 
shelves of the draper; the casks of drugs and 
powders in the storeroom of the chemist; the 
formidable array of carcases displayed by the 
enterprising butcher, — these represent so many 
reminders of the fact that the commerce of life 
is largely manipulated by the wholesale purchase 
of white elephants. But between these two inter- 
pretations of the phrase — the one as repugnant 
as the other is serviceable — there is another 
phase of the matter ; and it is this aspect of the 
question that has brought me to my desk. It is 
this particular variety of white elephant that I 
have just been hunting. 

Surprising as it may seem, I came upon a very 
large herd of white elephants almost under the 
shadow of Windsor Castle. A newspaper lying 
at this moment on my desk tells of a White Ele- 
phant Exchange, inaugurated under royal aus- 
pices and opened by Princess Alexander of Teck, 
which was the other day conducted at Windsor. 
The white elephants concerned consisted of vari- 
ous articles which the donors found in their 
possession but for which they had no real use. 



WHITE ELEPHANTS 203 

Each donor received as he entered the exchange 
a ticket bearing a number, which entitled him to 
somebody else's white elephant; and if he did 
not fancy the gift which fell to his lot, he re- 
turned it, and it was sold for the augmentation 
of the patriotic fund. It is averred that when 
those who desired to assist in this original form 
of philanthropy ransacked their homes in search 
of white elephants, they were astonished at the 
multiplicity and variety of those animals to be 
found among their household gods. I can easily 
believe it. Some time ago the residents of the 
city in which I dwell were invited to search their 
homes in a very similar quest, and to donate to 
patriotic purposes any goods or chattels for 
which they had no further use. Carts passed 
along the streets to convey these articles to the 
auction rooms. You never saw such a procession 
of white elephants! No menagerie since the 
world began could hold a candle to it. Comedy 
and tragedy jostled each other in the roadway. 
Here were the toys of little children who had 
passed beyond the need of all such entertain- 
ment; here was an old-fashioned mangle and a 
still older spinning-jenny; and here were ram- 
shackle old bits of furniture that had long ago 
given place to successors of a later pattern, and 
had since their displacement, only littered up the 
house. 



204 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

As I passed, in the course of my hunt, from 
one herd of white elephants to another, I was 
driven to the conclusion that our haphazard and 
somewhat ridiculous etiquette of gift-making has 
something to do with the enormous quantities 
of game that I discovered. There are certain 
occasions — weddings, birthdays, Christmas, and 
the like — when, according to our present social 
usage, decency demands that a present shall be 
sent. Nobody would rebel very bitterly against 
this engaging custom if only his mind could be 
entirely emancipated from the torturing appre- 
hension that, sooner or later, the dainty gift 
w^hich he is at such pains to purchase will take 
its place among the melancholy ranks of the 
white elephants. Nine times out of ten the un- 
w^ritten law that renders a present mandatory 
forbids any sane investigation as to the desires 
or requirements of the prospective recipient. It 
is equally indelicate, if not actually impossible, 
to ascertain the intentions of other donors. The 
result is inevitable. One has to determine be- 
tween the dreamily aesthetic or the severely 
utilitarian. He purchases, in the one case, a 
beautifully bound edition-de-luxe, knowing that 
it will be rapturously admired and eternally un- 
read ; or, in the other, he fixes his choice on some 
eminently useful article, feeling as he does so 
that in all human probability half a dozen other 



WHITE ELEPHANTS 205 

articles almost exactly like it will be simulta- 
neously received. And, in either instance, the 
danger of adding to the stock of white elephants 
is sufficiently grave to awaken embarrassing 
anticipations. 

We ministers are sinners above all men on the 
face of the earth in this respect. We allow white 
elephants to multiply about us like rabbits in a 
district to which a gun never comes. Unless we 
take care, we shall be trampled to death by them. 
Look at our libraries — at least, look at mine I All 
round the room, into which I should be ashamed 
to show a lady, there are uncomely stacks of 
books that ought to find hospitality on the 
shelves. But the walls are crowded with shelves, 
and the shelves are packed with books. At least, 
it looks like it. But it is purely an optical illu- 
sion, and deceives everybody but myself. As a 
matter of fact, however, these latest arrivals, 
packed up so unceremoniously on the floor, are 
being cheated out of their rightful places on the 
shelves by an enormous herd of white elephants. 
There are books that we bought by mistake; 
books that we know to be valueless ; books whose 
room is of much more value than their company. 
Yet, by an odd trick that books play upon us, we 
let them stay on the shelves whilst their superiors 
sprawl in undignified debasement on the floor! 
"I have read," says Sir W. Kobertson Nicoll, ^'I 



206 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

have read, and I find it to be true, that a man 
who loves books, unless he is exceptionally rich, 
is always more and more tormented to find room 
for them. They grow and grow, and the wall 
space does not grow, and the shelves do not grow. 
There is only one course possible, and it cannot 
be postponed for very long. The library must 
be weeded, and the weeding must be of a ruthless 
character.'^ This has driven me to make for my- 
self a good resolution. I happen to have a birth- 
day once a year. I intend for the rest of my 
life, whenever that auspicious date comes round, 
to set off after breakfast hunting white elephants. 
I shall go to the study first of all, and anybody 
who listens at the door will hear the thud, thud, 
thud, as the beasts fall upon the floor, and he 
will know that I am having good sport. And 
for a few days thereafter it will be reasonably 
safe for a lady to enter the room. 

The problem is, however, capable of still larger 
implications. Looking round us here in Aus- 
tralia, it is impossible to blink the fact that the 
greatest problem in the development of the Com- 
monwealth faces us just at this point. It is all 
very well for me to be sitting here beneath the 
Southern Cross calmly discussing the subject of 
white elephants. But what about Australia it- 
self? Australia is a huge continent, only the 
southern fringe of which is at present being 



WHITE ELEPHANTS 207 

exploited. The remainder is to all intents and 
purposes a white elephant. How is it to be 
delivered from that obnoxious classification? 
The man who can satisfactorily answer that 
question is the statesman for whom the Empire 
is anxiously waiting. 

And just once more. My friend Arthur Jen- 
kinson is a good fellow. He is exceedingly popu- 
lar in the office ; he is always welcome at the club 
and in other places where men do mostly congre- 
gate. His wife thinks there is nobody like him, 
and his children clap their hands as they hear 
him come whistling up the gravel path. But 
that is as far as it goes. You never see him at 
church ; he is doing no work for which the world 
will bless him when he is gone; and, as far as 
one can judge, he is laying up for himself no 
treasure in the world invisible. Years ago he sat 
spellbound at his mother's knee while she un- 
folded to him that sweet and gracious story with 
which no other story can compare ; and in those 
days his unspoiled heart responded to its charm. 
The treasure of the ages was poured into his 
soul, but he has never made use of it. He has 
allowed the holy faith of his childhood to take 
its place among the ranks of the white elephants. 
It is like the family Bible on the whatnot — very 
precious, but never used. 



Ill 

"THAT WILL DO ITT' 

It was at the Palace Beautiful. Christian had 
been opening his heart to Prudence, one of the 
sisters of that lovely place. He confesses with 
shame that he still thinks occasionally of the 
City of Destruction, and even cherishes within 
his breast some of the gross imaginations that 
once delighted him. He bears witness, too, that 
at other times he is able to completely overcome 
these inward and carnal cogitations, "and they,'^ 
he says, "are golden hours in which such things 
happen to me." 

"Can you remember," asks Prudence, "by what 
means you find your annoyances at times as if 
they were vanquished?" 

"Yes," replies Christian, "when I think what I 
saw at the Cross, that will do it; and when I look 
upon my broidered coat, that will do it; also 
when I look into the roll that I carry in my 
bosom, that will do it; and when my thoughts 
wax warm about whither I am going, that will 

do itr 

208 



'^THAT WILL DO IT!" 209 

The conversation was a remarkable one, and 
is worth thinking about. 



"When I think of what I saw at the Cross, that 
will do it I" There can be no mistaking Bunyan's 
meaning. The Cross was to him the centre of 
everything, the sun around which every other 
planet revolved, the hub of his spiritual universe. 
^*So I saw in my dream that just as Christian 
came up with the Cross, his burden loosed from 
off his shoulders, and fell from off his back, and 
began to tumble, and so continued to do, till it 
came to the mouth of the Sepulchre, where it 
fell in and I saw it no more. Then was Christian 
glad and lightsome, and said with a merry heart, 
*He hath given me rest by His sorrow and life 
by His death.' Then he stood still for a while, 
to look and wonder, for it was very surprising 
to him that the sight of the Cross should thus 
ease him of his burden. He looked therefore, 
and looked again, even till the springs that were 
in his head sent the waters down his cheeks.'' 
And whenever, from that time forth, Christian 
was troubled with enticements to evil, he had but 
to reflect upon what he saw upon the Cross, and 
his annoyances were as though they were not. 

There can be no doubt but that Bunyan is in 
line with all the great masters, the prophets and 



210 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

princes of the inner life. Isaac Watts lias re- 
flected the same profound experience in the 
greatest of all his hymns: 

"When I survey the wondrous Cross 
On which the Prince of Glory died, 
My richest gain I count but loss. 
And pour contempt on all my pride." 

And on Christian's testimony to Prudence, Mr. 
Mark Guy Pearse has modelled one of the most 
affecting and effective passages in "Daniel 
Quorm." Poor old Frankey Vivian, it will be 
remembered, was dying. He lay propped up with 
pillows and breathing heavily. Daniel Quorm 
was his class-leader, and visited him regularly. 
On the very last day of his life Frankey told 
Daniel of a dreadful struggle in which he had 
been engaged with the Tempter. 

"Last night," he said, "I had a terrible bout 
with un, sure enough, but, bless the Lord, I came 
off more than conqueror.'' 

Daniel inquired as to the secret of his victory. 

"Well," said the old man slowly and solemnly, 
"I took him up the Hill of Calvary. Ah, what 
a sight that is, dear leader, isn't it? And all 
for me! Why, it do melt my heart for to think 
about it. 

" There,' I says, 'thou poor old Tempter, canst 
thou see Him now? Pushed by the crowd; hooted 



"THAT WILL DO IT!" 211 

at from all sides; there is my Lord, my own 
Blessed Jesus! Dost see that crown of thorns 
upon His holy head? Look ! He staggers under 
that awful Cross — for me : for poor old Frankey 
Vivian! And canst thou see Him hanging on 
the Cross — for me: naked, bleeding, torn, dyin^ 
for my soul? There — that is how He loves me — 
He gave Himself for me !' '' 

Frankey's voice failed him for a minute or two. 
His eyes were fixed as if the scene stood out there 
visibly before him. 

"My own Blessed Lord! an' to think that I 
could ever have doubted Thee I" 

Then presently he went on again in a cheery 
way, turning his face to Dan'el : "Well, my dear 
leader, I looked round to see what the old 
Tempter thought o' that — and, bless 'ee, he was 
gone, clean, clean gone ! I tell 'ee what I think, — 
I don't believe he can set foot 'pon Calvary's 
Hill; so I do mean to keep right up under the 
Cross, out of his road if I can. Bless the Lord, 
I am right in under there now, my dear leader; 
and 'tis wonderful shelter — a beautiful place, hid 
in the clefts o' the rock." 

Then Frankey sank back exhausted. Dan'el 
still held the wasted hand in his own, but his 
heart was too full for speech. 

Yes, that will do it ! "When I think what I 
saw at the Cross, that will do it !" 



212 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

II 

"And when I look upon my Broidered Coat, 
that will do it.'' Oh, that broidered coat! 
Carljle has written a philosophy of clothes, but 
he never struck so deep a note as this. How well 
I remember that, in the dear old home that shel- 
tered my childhood, the home in which my par- 
ents still abide, there were two huge beautifully- 
bound volumes. In the best room in the house 
they occupied a shelf on the what-not all to them- 
selves. A stranger, glancing at them, would have 
supposed them to be family Bibles. One was. 
The other was a magnificent large-type edition 
of Pilgrim^s Progress, with handsome steel en- 
gravings. On Sunday afternoons, as a great 
treat, we were allowed, under suitable guidance, 
to look at the pictures. And I remember, as 
though it were yesterday, that they divided them- 
selves, in our minds, into two distinct classes, 
according to the clothes that Christian w^ore. It 
was the same with Rohinson Crusoe. If we 
opened the book at random, we could tell the 
stage in the story by the clothes in the picture. 
If Crusoe was dressed in his goatskin suit and 
furry cap, we knew that he was on his island ; if 
not, we knew that he had left it. So in Pilgrim's 
Progress, there were the pictures that repre- 
sented Christian in rags and tatters, and with 



<^THAT WILL DO IT!'' 213 

the burden on his back ; and there were the pic- 
tures that represented him either with his beauti- 
ful broidered coat, or with the shining armour 
by which that coat was afterwards covered. If 
he was dressed in rags, we knew that he had not 
yet reached the Cross; if he wore the broidered 
coat, we knew that the great change had taken 
place. For it was "as he stood looking and weep- 
ing before the Cross that, behold, three Shining 
Ones came to him and saluted him with Teace 
be to thee I' So the first said to him, Thy sins 
be forgiven' ; the second stripped him of his rags 
and clothed him with change of raiment; the 
third gave him a roll with a seal on it. So they 
went on their way. Then Christian gave three 
leaps for joy, and went on singing." 

The broidered coat was therefore the visible 
emblem of a great change, and in adopting this 
singular imagery, Bunyan was following the 
most exalted precedents. "Now Joshua was 
clothed with filthy garments, and stood before 
the angel. And he answered and spake unto 
those that stood before him, saying, Take away 
the filthy garments from him. And unto him he 
said. Behold, I have caused thine iniquity to pass 
from thee, and I will clothe thee with change of 
raiment." And what of the man out of whom 
the devils had departed, who was found "sitting 
at the feet of Jesus, clothed, and in his right 



214 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

mind"? And what of the Prodigal Son? Here 
is a philosophy of clothes, then, that leaves 
Sartor Resartus far behind ! 

"When I ,look upon my broidered coat, that 
will do it !" Bunyan means that when he thinks 
of the change that Christ has already effected in 
his life, the idea of denying his Lord appears pre- 
posterous. In his Living Christ and the Four 
Gospels, Dr. Dale maintains that, if by some 
extraordinary collapse, all the evidence on which 
our faith appears to rest suddenly failed us, those 
who have once experienced the grace of Christ 
would go on just as if nothing had happened. 
Their faith does not rest upon evidence that can 
be shaken. They glance at the broidered coat; 
they remember the rags that they once wore ; and 
it is enough. 

Ill 

"Also when I look into the Roll that I carry in 
my bosom, that will do it I" It is needless to 
labour the point. Bunyan had the very highest 
authority for his confident declaration. For of 
what can he have been thinking but of the 
Temptation in the Wilderness? That thrice- 
repeated ^^It is written^' is among the monumen- 
tal things in the sacred records. That precious 
scroll in the carpenter's home at Nazareth must 
have been bought at enormous sacrifice; but it 



"THAT WILL DO IT!'' 215 

was evidently not for ornament. Dr. Campbell 
Morgan remarks upon the Saviour's marvellous 
familiarity with even the most obscure passages 
of the Holy Word. His quotations are notable, 
he points out, for their immediate applicability 
to the need of the moment. Such quotations 
could only be made by one who, from a child, had 
known the Holy Scriptures. Who can fail to 
admire the foresight and divine sagacity which 
marked the wise carpenter's purchase of that 
costly roll? 

This is a great secret, this secret of being fore- 
armed. A man cannot snatch up a sword and 
rush into the battle. He must, together with the 
possession of a sword, have learned the art of 
swordsmanship. He must know how to use his 
weapon. In his stirring description of the battle 
of Killiecrankie, Macaulay vividly portrays the 
end of that famous fight. Dundee gave the High- 
landers the order to charge. The men threw 
away everything but their broadswords, and 
rushed forward with a fearful yell. "The Low- 
landers prepared to receive the shock; but this 
was a long and awkward process; and the sol- 
diers were still fumbling with the muzzles of 
their guns and the handles of their bayonets 
when the whole flood of Macleans, Macdonalds, 
and Camerons, came down upon them. In two 
minutes the battle was lost and won." How often 



216 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

have I seen a tempted spirit in a similar plight! 
In the hour in which faith is challenged, and 
honour threatened, he rushes frantically for a 
Bible. But he knows not how to use it, and whilst 
he is still fumbling among the unfamiliar pages, 
the foe makes himself master of every part of the 
field. The Duke of Wellington said that Water- 
loo was won on the playing-grounds of Eton. 
Certainly, the victory in the wilderness was won 
in those long and leisured evenings when Mary 
taught her holy Son the wondrous Word. And 
Christian's triumph was achieved in the study 
of that roll to which he applied himself for the 
first time at the Cross. "Thy Word have I hid 
in my heart,'' explained the sagacious Psalmist, 
"that I might not sin against Thee." "When I 
look into the roll that I carry in my bosom, that 
will do it r 

IV 

"And when my thoughts wax warm about 
whither I am goings that will do it I" 

"And what is it,'' inquired Prudence, "that 
makes you so desirous to go to Mount Zion?" 

"Why, there I hope to see Him alive that did 
hang dead upon the Cross. For, to tell you truth, 
I love Him, because I was by Him eased of my 
burden, and I would fain be with the company 
that shall continually cry ^Holy, holy, holy I' " 



'THAT WILL DO IT!'' 217 

Thus abruptly ends the interview. Prudence 
had no more to ask. She saw clearly enough that 
he that hath this hope in him purifieth himself 
even as He is pure. '^When my thoughts wax 
warm about whither I am going, that will do it.'^ 

The Cross — that will do it ! 

The Coat— that will do it ! 

The Boll— that will do it I 

The Citj—that will do it ! 
Happy is he who is thus four times fortified, like 
a city four-square and impregnable on every side. 



IV 

ANNIVERSARIES AT EBENEZER 



Ebenezer was celebrating its anniversary. For 
twenty-five years, or, as tlie speakers expressed 
it, a quarter of a century, the little sanctuary 
had received within its walls the faithful souls 
who found its worship a delight. But the joy 
-which is almost inseparable from anniversary 
gatherings was on this occasion a chastened one. 
A rumour was afloat to the effect that the meet- 
ing-house had been sold. Everybody knew that 
for many years the cloud of debt had hung like 
a pall over the worshippers; and now that the 
building had grown old-fashioned, unattractive, 
and sadly out of repair, it was even questionable 
as to whether or not it could be sold for a suffi- 
cient sum to extinguish existing liabilities. Most 
people were of opinion that Ebenezer had seen 
better days. And they w^ere right. Years ago, 
when Attleden w^as proud at being called a vil- 
lage, the newly erected chapel occupied a plot 
of ground in a prominent position, and was the 
admired of all observers. Among all the neigh- 
bouring counties, the South of England held no 
218 



ANNIVERSAKIES AT EBENEZER 219 

chapel to compare with it. So thought, at least, 
the Ebenezerites. But now a carnal progress 
had lifted Attleden up from the low level of vil- 
lagedom, and had converted it into a thriving 
little market town. And, what was still worse, 
the main thoroughfare had, for some unaccount- 
able reason, wended its way some hundred and 
fifty yards from Ebenezer, leaving the cherished 
abode of the Attleden saints at the very bottom 
of a narrow side-street. Nor had the progress of 
Attleden meant corresponding progress in the 
affairs of the meeting-house. The new generation 
of Attleden cared little for the old-fashioned 
chapel and its slow-going worshippers. They 
expressed a decided dissatisfaction with its serv- 
ices, and Frank Fulborough — an exceedingly 
popular young man, although a son of one of the 
church members — had on one occasion given 
utterance to a desire for "something more lively." 
This showed the good folk at Ebenezer that the 
world, the flesh, and the devil were doing their 
worst for the youth of Attleden, and they re- 
solved with more determination than ever to 
worship the God of their fathers in the old ways. 
And now that the little church had reached its 
twenty-fifth birthday, everybody felt that a crisis 
was at hand; and the report that the building 
had been sold only served to confirm the general 
apprehension. 



220 THE OTHEK SIDE OF THE HILL 

The attendance at the meeting that Monday 
evening was larger than usual. The interior of 
the meeting-house was plain to a degree. The 
walls were coloured — a long time ago — with a 
pale-blue distemper, whilst rude, unvarnished 
beams were more useful than ornamental to the 
upper portion of the chapel. The one aisle ran 
up the centre towards the platform, which con- 
sisted of a portable arrangement, like a big in- 
verted box, just large enough to hold the deal 
table, which served for a pulpit, and a couple of 
chairs. The chair behind the table was occupied 
by an old, grey-headed man of patriarchal ap- 
pearance, who was regarded as the father of the 
church. Deacon Samuels it was who first agi- 
tated for its formation and for the erection of 
Ebenezer. It was his clear, silvery voice that 
had announced the hymns Sunday after Sunday, 
with hardly a break, during all those twenty-five 
years; and when the weather had forbidden the 
"supplies'' to come, he was always there with a 
printed sermon to read to the assembly of the 
saints. He had presided at all the anniversary 
gatherings, and had generally occupied the chair 
behind the table when it was covered with the 
neat little white cloth on which stood the broken 
bread and the wine which showed forth, as the 
old deacon always put it, "the dear Lord's death 
until He come." And old Mr. Samuels had 



ANNIVERSARIES AT EBENEZER 221 

seemed almost as changeless as Ebenezer itself. 
He had always had grey hairs; he was always 
venerable and fatherly. He seemed no older now 
than he did when he presided at that Communion 
Table for the first time, twenty-five years ago, 
albeit he was then fifty-eight, w^hilst now he was 
eighty-three. Everybody loved him, and it was 
in a large measure owing to his vigorous person- 
ality that the assembly had struggled on for so 
many years. 

The chapel was fairly w ell filled, for nearly a 
hundred people had gathered beneath its 
weather-beaten roof. Some had come out of sheer 
curiosity ; others out of sympathy, although they 
never knew before that they had any sympathy 
for poor Ebenezer. A few — regular attendants — 
had come across the fields as the sun was setting 
on this lovely evening in the late summer. How 
that very sun, as it gradually sank over the 
horizon, leaving the world to darkness, and the 
summer, fading as it was into death-bringing 
autumn, seemed in mournful sympathy wdth 
their thoughts as they had pondered on Ebenezer I 
Punctually at the time appointed. Brother 
Samuels announced the first hymn. There was 
a touch of pathos in the words as he read them ; 
"Thus far my God hath led me on, 
And made His truth and mercy known; 
My hopes and fears alternate rise, 
And comforts mingle with my sighs." 



222 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

It was sung to the Old Hundredth. After prayer 
and the reading of the psalm, commencing, 
"Lord, Thou hast been our dwelling-place in all 
generations," Mr. Fulborough, sen., a little old 
man who looked out from behind a large pair of 
spectacles, read the annual report, after which 
Mr. Samuels rose to deliver the speech of the 
evening. 

First of all, he expressed his deep gratitude 
to God for having been spared to see this anni- 
versary. "For a quarter of a century," he said, 
"the hand of our God has been upon us. How 
well I remember that evening, twenty-five years 
ago, when we sat round this Communion Table, 
and I extended to the other members the right 
hand of fellowship as we were formed into a 
church. There were just seven of us. Since then 
two have fallen asleep, but the other five remain 
faithful unto this day." 

He seemed utterly regardless of the fact that 
perhaps it might have been desirable had some 
additions been made to the roll. To him figures 
were carnal things, and in these days of change 
and fluctuation it was cause for devout gratitude 
that the five living members had stood sound in 
the faith, proof against every wind that blows. 
Then he narrated the painful circumstances that 
had driven them to free themselves from debt at 
the cost of their much-loved meeting-house; and 



ANNIVERSARIES AT EBENEZER 223 

at least five of those present, including the 
speaker, were in tears as he explained that this 
must De at the same time their anniversary and 
their leave-taking of their beloved Ebenezer. A 
painful touch of melancholy was felt in the utter- 
ances of the speakers who followed, and there 
was an audible sigh of relief when Mr. Samuels 
rose and gave out, in a voice choked now and 
again by sobs, the concluding hymn, 

"Come on, my partners in distress." 

Several hearts ached as they looked round 
Ebenezer that night after the meeting. What if 
it was plain and old-fashioned? It was there 
that often their hearts had been comforted. And 
what if all the long-metre hymns had been sung 
to the Old Hundredth, and the services been 
dubbed "slow" by the worldly-minded Frank Ful- 
borough and his companions? It was here, not 
once, nor twice, that they had derived "help from 
the sanctuary." Once more they looked at the 
little platform with its ragged Bible and its 
simple candle-stick; once more they cast affec- 
tionate glances round at the hard seats, the plain 
walls, the rude beams, and at the Communion 
Table hallowed by a thousand sacred memories, 
and then they "wen.t out, and it was night." 

II 

For the next few Sundays the five members, 



224 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

and one or two faithful friends, met for prayer 
at the house of the venerable deacon, Mr. 
Samuels. They could not bring themselves to 
attend the Established Church and countenance 
its ritualism, nor could they persuade themselves 
that there was not a spirit of unholy levity in 
the services conducted by the Methodists. And 
so they met in Brother Samuels's kitchen and 
prayed for the peace of Jerusalem. They would 
read a psalm together, and twice in those few 
Sabbaths the hundred and thirty-seventh was 
called into requisition. In a trembling voice 
their leader read, "By the rivers of Babylon there 
we sat down ; yea, we wept w^hen we remembered 
Zion." 

"Shall we sing, brethren?" one of the congre- 
gation ventured to suggest on the first Sunday in 
the kitchen. 

"How shall we sing the Lord's song in a 
strange land?" replied the veteran in w^hose 
abode they were assembled ; and so, for the pres- 
ent at any rate, even the Old Hundredth had to 
be numbered among the treasures of memory. 

But five weeks after the closing of Ebenezer a 
new announcement appeared on the notice-board 
in front of the porch. It was to the effect that 
after the building had undergone thorough reno- 
vation, repairs, and improvements, services 
would be held in it every Lord's Day morning 



ANNIVEKSARIES AT EBENEZER 225 

and evening, conducted by the Rev. Arthur Stan- 
ton, late of Chelsham College. It seemed that 
Mr. Stanton's invasion of Attleden was the out- 
come of a forward movement on the part of the 
denominational authorities. 

The announcement was received with indiffer- 
ence by those who attended the church; but the 
town gossips made it a matter of general dis- 
cussion. 

"It'll break old Samuels's heart," said one, "to 
see th' old place done up all spick and span, and 
a parson in the pulpit." 

"Mebbe, mebbe," replied his companion, "but 
th' Ebenezerites ain't likely to trouble the 
reverent genelman with their presence over- 
much I" 

And so it turned out, for Mr. Samuels had re- 
minded his brethren that they were not to be 
carried about by every wind of doctrine, but to 
contend earnestly for the faith once delivered 
to the saints. 

The Rev. Arthur Stanton proved to be a young 
man possessed of many personal attractions and 
of considerable ability, and Attleden gave him a 
hearty greeting. The young men and maidens 
from the shops and stores attended the services, 
and the walls of Ebenezer almost groaned at the 
strain put upon their dimensions. Needless to 
say, the old table and candlestick had disap- 



226 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

peared, and the dim religious light of earlier 
days had given place to a number of bright, 
though less Puritanical, electric lights. One 
could hardly bring himself to believe that he was 
back at old Ebenezer again. Mr. Stanton an- 
nounced the hymns in a clear, ringing voice, and 
the sermon — thoughtful, liberally illustrated, 
and delivered in earnest tones and grave — was 
in strange contrast with the solemn and almost 
sepulchral utterances to which the interior of 
Ebenezer had become accustomed. 

In Mr. Samuels's kitchen, on the fourth Sun- 
day after Mr. Stanton's advent into Attleden, 
the faithful few were gathered for prayer and 
the devout worship of God. Mr. Samuels had 
just read a psalm, when Mr. Fulborough rose, 
and, in a voice husky with emotion, proceeded to 
address the company: 

"Brethren, I never was a speaker after no 
fashion, but I ask ye to rejoice with me, for my 
Frank has been called by divine grace, and is 
walking in newness of life.'' 

There was a momentary look of suspicion on 
the faces of two or three of his hearers, but 
Brother Fulborough continued : 

"I've allers been faithful to the cause at Ebe- 
nezer, and have humbly sought to adorn by a 
consistent life the doctrines as we've defended; 
but I feel as the Lord is at Ebenezer still, and 



ANNIVERSARIES AT EBENEZER 227, 

I'm going back again, and my lad shall serve his 
father's God in his father's sanctuary." 

Ill 

Ebenezer was celebrating its anniversary — the 
third since the Rev. Arthur Stanton's settlement. 
The building had been enlarged and renovated 
beyond all recognition since the young minister's 
advent. A well-attended public tea had been 
held, and the evening meeting was about to com- 
mence. The chapel was well filled, and at the 
appointed time the pastor took the chair. The 
minister from the Methodist church occupied a 
seat on the platform. Prayer and singing were 
followed by the annual report, read by "our 
newly appointed Church secretary, Mr. Frank 
Fulborough." Next, Mr. Stanton himself de- 
livered a cheering and earnest address in har- 
mony with the gladness that prevailed. Other 
speakers followed, and when the hour was get- 
ting late, the chairman said : 

"I think we can hardly do better than ask our 
venerable friend and brother. Deacon Samuels, 
to say a word or two, and close the meeting." 

The old man's white hairs were even whiter 
now. There was a slight stoop at the shoulders, 
but he might have been an old soldier, such was 
the dignity and stateliness of his bearing. There 
was a glory upon his brow that is more easy to 



228 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

record than to define ; and had the chairman and 
audience known that this would be his last anni- 
versary, nay, his last appearance at Ebenezer, 
and that, ere another Sabbath came on its way, 
they would have laid the veteran in his wreath- 
crowned grave, maybe it would only have en- 
hanced that mystic glow. 

He rose and repeated slowly : 

''When the Lord turned again the captivity of 
Zion, we were like them that dream. Then was 
our mouth filled with laughter, and our tongue 
with singing. Then said they among the heathen : 
^The Lord hath done great things for them.' The 
Lord hath done great things for us, whereof we 
are glad." 

"Brethren," he continued, ''let us sing : 



*Praise God, from whom all blessings flow. 
Praise Him, all creatures here below. 
Praise Him above, ye heavenly host. 
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.' ** 

And once more the tune was the Old Hun- 
dredth. 



THE MINISTRY OF NONSENSE 

It was at Wedge Bay that I first made up my 
mind to say a good word for nonsense. I had a 
short illness a few years ago, and as soon as I 
could clamber out of bed I took a cab and a 
steamer and made straight for Wedge Bay. 
There the bush and the beach, with all the other 
beauties that I have previously described, con- 
spired to set me on my feet again. Medicine, too, 
I took; but one of the most precious packets of 
physic reached me by the first mail after my 
arrival. I have no idea who sent it. He was a 
genius, whoever he was. The package contained 
six issues of the London Punch; and as I saun- 
tered about the sands in those days of convales- 
cence, and snatched bits of Punch whenever the 
humour took me, I discovered for the first time 
what the ministry of nonsense means. Mr. G. K. 
Chesterton, in one of his frolicsome moods, de- 
clared the other day that the discovery of non- 
sense was the most notable discovery of the Vic- 
torian era. He was not far out. That stirring 
age was pre-eminently an age of daring ingenuity 
and masterly manufacture; but Mr. Chesterton 
thinks that the finest of all its innumerable pro- 

229 



230 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

ductions was the making of good jokes. All that 
was really illustrious in the literature of that 
fruitful period emanated, he believes, from the 
awakening of an altogether fresh and altogether 
delightful sense of exquisite humour. An en- 
tirely new vein was exploited; and the English- 
man of those great days excelled himself, in Mr. 
Chesterton's judgement, as a humorist, and one 
of the best humorists in Europe. A sly twinkle 
haunted the eye of the typical Victorian, and a 
hearty peal of laughter was never far away. 

The humorist is beset by two opposite tempta- 
tions, the temptation to buffoonery and the 
temptation to cynicism ; and it is to the honour 
of the men who inaugurated the new style half 
a century ago that, speaking generally, they con- 
trived to steer skilfully between the rocks of 
Scylla on the one hand and the whirlpool of 
Charybdis on the other. The pre- Victorian critics 
were fond of extolling Addison as the beau ideal 
whose humour should be regarded as the model 
of the younger writers; and it is difficult to 
quarrel with their choice. Macaulay contrasts 
Addison with Voltaire on the one hand and wdth 
Swift on the other. The humour of Swift, he 
points out, was marked by a severity which 
gradually hardened and darkened into misan- 
thropy. The humour of Voltaire, on the other 
hand, was constantly disfigured by irreverence. 



THE MINISTRY OF NONSENSE 231 

"The mirth of Swift," he says, "is the mirth of 
Mephistopheles ; the mirth of Voltaire is the 
mirth of Puck.'' Against this dark background, 
the historian shows us the pure, clean, wholesome 
mirth of Addison, "a mirth consistent with ten- 
der compassion for all that is frail, and with 
profound reverence for all that is sublime." But 
whilst the merriment of Addison is certainly 
innocent of the ugly blemishes that disfigure the 
jests of Voltaire, and of the satire that embit- 
tered the witticisms of Swift, we all feel that it 
cuts a very sorry figure when compared with 
those spacious realms of magnificent nonsense 
which the litterateurs of a century later so 
bravely discovered and so thoroughly explored. 
The flickering mirth of the Georgian authors 
seems scarcely more worthy of comparison with 
the rich creations of the Victorian school than 
does the humour that Heinrich Heine saluted in 
his kittens. There is nothing in the older litera- 
ture that can hold its own against the magnifi- 
cent gusto of Mr. Pickwick, the excruciating 
absurdities of the March Hare, the rollicking 
drolleries of Pooh-Bah, or the polished subtleties 
which, for so many years, have made famous Mr. 
Punch's Wednesday dinner-table — the old ma- 
hogany tree in Bouverie Street. Every man 
whose appreciation of the ludicrous enables him 
to catch the spirit of these irresistible concep- 



232 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

tions will gratefully acknowledge that the non- 
sense discovered by the great Victorian humor- 
ists was in every way worthy of the distinguished 
genius engaged in the adventure. 

One of the very choicest spirits that I ever met 
was a man who knew how to turn a ministry of 
nonsense to the highest possible ends. I am 
thinking of the Rev. J. J. Doke, who died, a year 
or two ago, in the course of an exploratory jour- 
ney through Rhodesia. He officiated at my wed- 
ding; and he and I worked together for some 
years in New Zealand, understanding each other 
pretty thoroughly. I shall never forget the 
triumphs that he achieved by his faculty for fun. 
I never knew a man in whom holiness and 
humour blended as they did in him. I have 
known many good men who loved to laugh; but 
the goodness and the laughter seemed somehow 
to dwell in separate compartments of their being. 
When they were laughing you temporarily forgot 
their devoutness; and when they were praying 
you forgot their peals of merriment. But with 
Mr. Doke it was quite otherwise. The ingredi- 
ents, both of his humour and of his piety, were 
such that they blended most perfectly, and you 
could never tell where the one ended and the 
other began. 

And this remarkable trait was used by Mr. 
Doke for all it was worth. It happened that his 



THE MINISTRY OF NONSENSE 233 

sojourn in New Zealand synchronized with a 
trying period of storm and stress in the history 
of our Missionary Society. It was a most grave 
and anxious time for all of us, and I shall never 
forget how, time after time, his tactful wit saved 
most delicate and threatening situations. Mr. 
Chesterton says that the discovery of nonsense 
was the greatest revelation of the nineteenth cen- 
tury. That being so, Mr. Doke deserves to be 
ranked as one of our greatest discoverers, for he 
saw, as few men saw, the inestimable value of 
that magic and potent force. I can recall occa- 
sions when we had been sitting for hours, anx- 
iously discussing a depressing and apparently 
impossible situation, until our patience was ex- 
hausted and our nerves unstrung. Out of sheer 
weariness and vexation we might easily have 
committed any sort of indiscretion. But over 
there in the corner sits Mr. Doke. I can see him 
now. He is taking out his pencil. In a moment 
or two he has finished his w^ork. With a few 
deft strokes he has struck off an irresistibly comi- 
cal cartoon, caricaturing some ridiculous phase 
in the trying affair, and focusing, in the drollest 
possible way, the humorous side of the knotty 
question. The cartoon is handed round, and we 
laugh immoderately over the product of Mr. 
Doke's captivating genius. A new atmosphere 
straightway envelopes the debate. The interrup- 



234 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

tion is as refreshing as an hour's sleep or a 
delicious cup of tea. It is as though a window 
has been opened in a stuffy room, and the place 
has suddenly been filled with fresh and perfume- 
laden air. We settle down to work again with 
clearer brains, cheerier hearts, and sweeter 
tempers. 

This was in committee ; but he waved the same 
magic wand over our assembly. I remember a 
very painful debate that took place in those try- 
ing days. The question was as to whether or not 
certain letters ought ever to have been written. 
Some telling speeches had been made, and feeling 
was running very high. At length the time for 
voting arrived, and it looked as though the 
assembly would not only censure its officers, but 
perhaps precipitate a cleavage that many years 
would scarcely heal. The chairman rose to put 
the motion. The atmosphere was distinctly elec- 
trical and charged with tensest feeling. In the 
nick of time, Mr. Doke cried "Mr. President,'' 
and came striding down the aisle. I can see him 
now as he turned to address us. "Mr. Presi- 
dent," he said, "is it not possible that both sides 
are right? Is it not possible that we are each 
reading into these troublesome letters our own 
strong feeling? Let me tell you a story. Once 
upon a time a man had two children, a boy and 
a girl. In course of time, the boy became refrac- 



THE MINISTRY OF NONSENSE 235 

tory and ran away from home. He was not heard 
of again for many years. The girl remained at 
her father's side, and was his constant stay and 
comforter. Just, however, as the old man had 
given up all hope of again hearing from his son, 
a letter arrived. But neither father nor daugh- 
ter had been to school, and they could not read 
it. ^Let us take it down to the butcher, father !' 
the daughter suggested. *He can read, and he 
will tell us what Tom says.' To the butcher 
they accordingly hastened. Now the butcher 
w^as a gruff, sour, surly old man, and they were 
unfortunate enough to find him in one of his 
nastiest moods. He tore open the letter with a 
grunt, and read, in a snappy, churlish voice — 
^Dear father, I'm very ill; send me some money. 
Yours, Tom.' *The rascal !' the old man exclaimed 
indignantly, ^he only wants my money. He 
shan't have a single penny !' They turned away 
sorrowfully, and set off towards home. But on 
the way another thought visited the daughter, 
father," she said, ^what do you say to going to 
the baker? The butcher may have made a mis- 
take. The baker can read, too ; and he is a kind, 
Christian man. Let us go to him !' And to the 
baker's they went. Now the baker was a genial, 
gracious soul, with a voice tremulous with feel- 
ing and resonant with sympathy. He gently 
took the letter from its envelope and read : ^Dear 



236 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

father, I'm very ill; send me some money, — 
Yours, Tom.' ^The poor boy/ the old man cried, 
brushing away a tear. 'How much can we send 
him?' '' 

The whole assembly was in the best of good 
humour at once. The application was obvious. 
It was as though the lowering thundercloud had 
broken in refreshing summer rain. The air was 
cleared, and the flowers were exhaling their 
choicest fragrance in the sunshine that followed 
the storm. Mr. Doke's beautiful personality had 
cast its spell over us all. We felt that we wanted 
an interval in which to shake hands with each 
other. He made a suggestion in closing that 
would obviate all risk of further complications. 
Both sides snatched at it eagerly ; and the pain- 
ful episode closed with expressions of the most 
cordial goodwill. 

Here, then, we have the ministry of nonsense ; 
and a very sacred and beautiful ministry it is. 
What tragedies might have been spared if only 
nonsense had been discovered a few centuries 
earlier! Who can review the strifes and squab- 
bles of centuries gone by without deploring the 
utter lack of humour which so often character- 
ized the angTy combatants. "Isn't it desperately 
comical," George Gissing makes one of his char- 
acters to exclaim, "that one human being can 
hate and revile another because they think differ- 



THE MINISTRY OF NONSENSE 237 

ently about the origin of the universe?" Soame 
Jenyns, a quaint old writer of two centuries 
back, gravely affirmed that a fine sense of humour 
is one of the chief delights of the seraphim and 
of just men made perfect. He writes as though 
he knew what he was talking about, and I am in 
no mood to contradict him. "Is there humour in 
the divine mind?" asked one of his students of 
old Rabbi Duncan one day. "It's true and it's 
no true I" answered the canny old Scotsman. I 
wish that Heinrich Heine could have been there. 
"How can w^e think that God has no humour 
when He made kittens?'' Heine asks. I should 
like to have seen the old Rabbi fencing with that 
conundrum. To be sure, the world would be a 
glum old place if all the laughter died out of it ; 
and how did the laughter get into it if God did 
not put it there? That's what I should like to 

know. 

"I love my God as He loves me — 
Merrily. 

I feel His kisses in the breeze, 
And so I carve His name on trees — 
Why not? 

Ten thousand years misunderstood 
He needs my laughter in the wood 
A lot." 

Yes, I think that old Soame Jenyns must be 
right, and that there must be some fondness of 
fun among the angels. 



VI 

THE GRIN 

Of all Alice's "Adventures in Wonderland/' it 
always seems to me that her adventure with the 
Cheshire Cat was by far the most illuminating 
and significant. The March Hare is good, and 
the Mad Hatter is better, but the Cheshire Cat 
is best of all. The cat was sitting on the bough 
of a tree not far from her, when Alice was first 
made aware, with a start, of its existence. "The 
cat only grinned when it saw Alice. It looked 
good-natured, she thought ; still it had long claws 
and a great many teeth, so she felt that it ought 
to be treated with respect." Alice addressed the 
cat, and was pleased to see that it "only grinned 
a little wider." The extraordinary thing about 
the cat, however, was not the suddenness of its 
appearance, but the gradual way in which it 
vanished. It went and came again several times. 

"I wish," said Alice, "you wouldn't keep ap- 
pearing and vanishing so suddenly; you make 
one quite giddy." 

"All right," said the cat, and this time it 
vanished quite slowly, beginning with the end of 
the tail, and ending with the grin, which re- 
mained some time after the rest of it had gone. 

238 



THE GRIN 239 

"Well, I've often seen a cat without a grin," 
thought Alice; "but a grin without a cat! It's 
the most curious thing I ever saw in my life !" 



Poor little Alice I I daresay that there was a 
time in my own life when, in my childish sim- 
plicity, I thought that the grin was part and 
parcel of the cat, and that you had simply to 
make an end of the cat in order to get rid of the 
grin. If there was such a time, it was long, long 
ago, and I must have laid such a fantastic notion 
aside with my faith in fairies and elves. For 
everybody who has reached the years of maturity 
and reality has discovered that it is the easiest 
thing in the world to get rid of the cat. A bucket 
of water or sixpennyworth of poison will make 
an end of its nine lives all at once. But the 
grin ! You may sink your cat into the unfathom- 
able depths of the ocean, or administer to it the 
most powerful poison that the Pharmaceutical 
Societies of the world, gathered in solemn con- 
clave, can prescribe, but you will not kill the 
grin. Alice discovered, as we have all discovered 
sooner or later, that the grin always survives the 
cat. Anybody who has ever tried to drown a cat 
knows perfectly well that, even as you leave the 
scene of the tragedy, feeling as guilty and as 
wretched as the vilest felon who was ever hanged 



240 THE OTHEK SIDE OF THE HILL 

at Newgate, the cat grins at you from the bough 
of every tree and the top of every wall. Lewis 
Carroll's picture of little Alice marvelling at the 
grin still left in the tree after the cat had gone 
is one of the most touching and satisfying de- 
lineations of childish simplicity in the language. 

II 

In point of fact, this matter of the cat and the 
grin has been very prominent of late. Perhaps 
no philosopher has ever stirred the thought of 
the world quite so deeply as has Henri Bergson. 
Bergson's philosophy is a philosophy of move- 
ment. And the whole controversy that has raged 
around his person and work has concerned itself 
with the question as to whether you can have a 
movement apart from an object moving. "Is it 
possible,'' as Mr. H. W. Carr asks, "to imagine 
that movement is itself reality, that it can subsist 
by itself, and that the things that move are not 
prior to, but productions of, the movement? This 
difficulty goes to the very heart of the problem 
of philosophy." Here, then, w^e have the very 
latest word of the most advanced academies re- 
duced to this question — Can you have movement 
apart from a thing moving? Which, I aver, is 
simply another way of asking. Can you have a 
grin apart from a cat? And as I have already 
committed myself to the philosophy of Lewis 



THE GRIN 241 

Carroll, I am bound as an act of intellectual 
decency and consistency, to ally myself with Pro- 
fessor Bergson. I am not quite sure that Henri 
Bergson and Lewis Carroll have ever been intro- 
duced, and I feel that I owe them some sort of 
apology for jumbling up Alice in Wonderland 
and U Evolution Great rice in this unceremonious 
way. But the two gentlemen are each in excel- 
lent company and will agree admirably. For, of 
course, as Bergson teaches, you can have pure 
movement apart from a thing moving. And — 
equally, of course — you can have a grin left in 
the tree after the cat has gone. But it is time 
that we emerged from the nebulous mists of the 
abstract, and began to examine the illustrative 
phenomena. Very well, let us go out. 

Ill 

I remember once being in serious trouble 
through having quite innocently grieved a friend 
whose confidence I highly valued. It was purely 
an accident. A thing had happened that was 
obviously ambiguous and capable of several in- 
terpretations. The most unhappy construction 
was put upon it, and the matter soon assumed 
an exaggerated importance. There were two 
courses open to me: I could go to my friend 
pleading my innocence and vindicating my posi- 
tion. I knew, however, that his mind was so 



242 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

poisoned that he could not be expected to accept 
my assurance without discussion, and discussion 
would prove tedious and fruitless. I therefore 
resolved upon the other course. I went to him 
and confessed that I had moved without suffi- 
ciently calculating the possible construction that 
might be placed upon my action, and I craved 
his forgiveness. 

"Yes," he answered, "I forgive you!" Thus 
vanished the cat. 

"But," he added, "we can never be the same 
again !" Thus lingered the grin. 

IV 

Now forgiveness is one of the highest arts of 
life. I had almost said that it is the highest art 
of life. It is the highest because it is the divinest. 
It is a great thing to be a really good forgiver. 
And the difference between a good forgiver and 
a poor forgiver is simply this: A good forgiver 
takes care that the grin vanishes with the cat. 
Here are a couple of illustrative stories, selected 
from two great biographies, one of a poor for- 
giver, and one of a good forgiver. The first is 
from Coke and Moore's Life of Wesley. On Wes- 
ley's voyage to America, he heard one day an 
unusual noise in the cabin of General Oglethorpe, 
the Governor of Georgia. Wesley stepped in to 
inquire the cause. It turned out that Grimaldi, 



THE GRIN 243 

the Governor's servant, had devoured the entire 
stock of the great man's favourite wine. "But I 
will be revenged !" cried the Governor. "I have 
ordered him to be tied hand and foot, and to 
be carried to the man-of-war that sails with us. 
For, you know, Mr. Wesley, I never forgive!" 
"In that case, sir," replied Wesley, "I hope you 
never sin!" The General was quite confounded 
at the reproof; and putting his hand into his 
pocket, took out a bunch of keys, w^hich he threw 
at Grimaldi, saying, "There, villain, take my 
keys, and behave better for the future !" In this 
flinging of keys at the unhappy sinner, and in 
this "There, villain," we feel, as I felt in the case 
of my friend, that, although the cat had vanished, 
the grin was still there. Oglethorpe was but a 
poor forgiver. 



Now, side by side with this, and by way of con- 
trast, let me set an incident from the life of Glad- 
stone. Gladstone was at the time Chancellor of the 
Exchequer. He sent down to the Treasury office 
one day for a sheaf of statistics on which he based 
his budget proposals. Now it happened that, in 
compiling the statistics, the clerk had made a mis- 
take that vitally affected the entire situation. The 
blunder was only discovered after Mr. Gladstone 
had elaborated his proposal and made his budget 



244 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

speech in the House of Commons. The papers im- 
mediately exposed the fallacy, and for a moment 
the Chancellor was overwhelmed with embarrass- 
ment. He was made to appear ridiculous before 
the entire nation. He sent down to the Treasury 
for the clerk to come to him at once. The clerk 
duly arrived, trembling with apprehension, and 
expecting instant dismissal. He began to stam- 
mer out his apologies, and his entreaty for for- 
giveness. Mr. Gladstone stopped him. "I sent 
for you," he said, ^^because I could imagine the 
torture of your feelings. You have been for 
many years dealing with the bewildering intri- 
cacies of the national accounts, and you have 
done your work with such conscientious exact- 
ness that this is your first mistake. It was be- 
cause of your splendid record that I did not 
trouble to verify your calculations. I have sent 
for you to compliment you on that record and 
to set you at your ease.'' The cat had vanished 
from the tree, and had left not the shadow of a 
grin behind. If the Kew Testament means any- 
thing, it means that a man who can forgive with 
such gallantry and chivalry is a very great Chris- 
tian indeed. 

VI 

I am not at all sure that our great Church 
Courts — our Synods and Assemblies and Con- 



THE GRIN 245 

gresses — will not have to take this matter of the 
lingering grin into serious consideration. It is 
good and pleasant, as the Psalmist said, to see 
brethren dwelling together in unity. But when 
I see a basis of organic union being drafted by 
bodies that once quarrelled like Kilkenny cats, I 
am nervous lest, with the formal extinction of 
the cat, some ghostly wraith of a grin should still 
linger. One of the most stinging passages in 
Gibbon's Decline and Fall is that in which he 
tells how, at the Synod of Florence, the Greek 
and Latin Churches embraced, subscribed, and 
united. But the grin lingered. A spectral spirit 
of mutual suspicion haunted their intercourse. 
"These signs of friendship," says Gibbon, "were 
perfidious or fruitless; and the baseless fabric 
of the union vanished like a dream.'' Macaulay 
has a passage in his History dealing with a 
similar experience in England in 1688. The 
union of Episcopalians, Presbyterians, Independ- 
ents, and Baptists was, he says, like a golden age 
between two iron ages. And, commenting on the 
tying and cutting of these bonds of unity, Ma- 
caulay says that "it must be remembered that, 
though concord is in itself better than discord, 
discord may indicate a better state of things than 
is indicated by concord." That is to say, if I 
understand the historian rightly, that it is -even 
better to have the Cheshire Cat itself than to get 



246 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

rid of the cat and find the grin still smirking and 
leering on the bough. 

VII 

There is just one other word of which this 
fantastic spectre reminds me. There are few 
things more pitiful than the lingering of the 
ghostly shadow after the actual substance has 
vanished. I have known Christian workers to 
give up working, and givers to give up giving, 
and teachers to give up teaching, and preachers 
to give up preaching. And this is bad enough. 
But it does not sound the lowest depth of spirit- 
ual squalor. The worst tragedy of all occurs 
when the worker goes on working, and the giver 
goes on giving, and the teacher goes on teaching, 
and the preacher goes on preaching, after the 
faith and rapture that first prompted these gra- 
cious activities have fled. The first love is lost; 
the old enthusiasm is dissipated ; and the mock- 
ing shadow alone remains. Ichabod is stamped 
upon the soul ; but that soul still moves habitu- 
ally and mechanically through its accustomed 
round. The life itself has disappeared; yet the 
grin still haunts the changed but familiar scene. 



VII 

MY TOBACCO 

My friend Anderson is a great smoker. He is a 
minister, and I have once or twice heard some 
of his own people express the wish that he were 
a little less ardently devoted to his pipe. It is 
not for me either to excuse or to condemn him. 
Our friendship has lasted now through a good 
many years; I have therefore had the oppor- 
tunity of observing him pretty closely; I have 
myself never smoked a pipe in my life ; yet I have 
often felt that in some respects he has the advan- 
tage of me. Let a couple of examples suffice. 
Both incidents occurred last evening. 

I rose from tea at half-past six. I had had a 
heavy and trying day. The only engagement that 
lay before me was an appointment here at the 
house at eight o'clock. Now I felt that, if I were 
wise, I should take things easily until then. I 
sauntered into the study in a haphazard kind 
of a way; and in five minutes found myself 
engrossed in a variety of matters that needed 
attention. 

"Come, now,'' I said to myself, "this won't do ! 
You said you were going to rest for half an hour ; 

247 



248 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

and here you are, at it as hard as ever ! Go out 
on to the verandah !'' 

To the verandah I accordingly went, taking 
with me a book. But why a book? Why not let 
everything go for a few minutes? Stroll up and 
down bareheaded; watch the clouds or the peo- 
ple ; and do nothing I I tried it, but it was hard 
work. Yet Anderson would have found it the 
easiest thing in the world. He would have gone 
out to the verandah, lit his pipe, put his hands 
in his pockets, enjoyed feeling the breeze playing 
with his hair, and would have walked up and 
down as happy as a king. So much for the first 
of my promised examples. Now for the second. 

Eight o'clock arrived. My friend came up the 
front steps just as the clock was striking. He 
told me beforehand that he wished to discuss 
with me a matter of some delicacy. It w^as too 
chilly by this time to remain on the verandah. 
I lit the gas in the dining-room, and pointed him 
to an arm-chair. I seated myself in the chair 
opposite him. So far all had gone perfectly well. 
But now the trouble began. We found ourselves 
staring awkwardly at each other. There w^as a 
certain stiffness in the situation that it was diffi- 
cult to overcome. To begin by talking about the 
weather would have been an affectation, for he 
knew that I w^as absorbed by curiosity as to the 
subject that had brought him. And I, in my 



MY TOBACCO 249 

turn, knew that that subject — whatever it was — 
engrossed all his thought. To sit there facing 
each other seemed absurd ; yet to plunge into the 
matter in hand before he had well got his breath 
would have appeared artificial and abrupt. 
There is a psychological moment for the com- 
mencement of a conversation. In this case, it 
had not come. And so an awkward pause ensued. 
I looked at him in a stand-and-deliver kind of a 
way, whilst he, I could see, was revolving the 
troublesome subject in his mind and wondering 
how best to approach it. Now a pair of smokers 
would have managed things much more pleas- 
antly. They would have lit their pipes and 
puffed away, and neither would have cared how 
long the other took before he spoke. I should 
have been saved from appearing unduly inquisi- 
tive, and he would have felt under no obligation 
to break the silence until he was perfectly ready. 
I was glancing yesterday through the Life of 
Viscount Wolverhampton — better known as Sir 
Henry Fowler. His daughter tells us, in the 
course of this fine biography, that Sir Henry was 
an inordinate devourer of newspapers. And 
when criticized for his prodigious appetite for 
magazines and periodicals, he, a non-smoker, 
replied, ^They are my tobacco F' It was this sug- 
gestive phrase that drove me to my desk. If a 
man does not smoke, he must carefully make 



250 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

other arrangements for developing the graces to 
which a pipe will help a smoker. Unless I can 
cultivate by some other means that perfect rest- 
fulness, that fine poise of spirit, which I so ad- 
mire in Anderson, I must confess myself de- 
feated. He has the better of me. In my case, 
Sir Henry Fowler's newspapers will not exactly 
fill the bill; but they will serve as a starting- 
point. How are we to enjoy a smoker's advan- 
tages, and cultivate a smoker s graces, without 
recourse to tobacco? That is the question. 

There are moments when it is absolutely neces- 
sary that a man should say nothing and do noth- 
ing. It is in those crucial moments that the non- 
smoker finds himself at a disadvantage. He is 
fidgety and restless; impatient for action, eager 
for the time to come at which he can profitably 
work or speak. The smoker gets over the diffi- 
culty without any such agony of nervous fretful- 
ness. Old Izaak Walton is a case in point. In 
instructing us as to the best way of catching 
bream, he says that, at about four o'clock in the 
afternoon, we must repair to the bank of the 
^stream, and, as soon as we come to the waterside, 
must cast in one-half of our ground-bait and 
stand off. *^Then, whilst the fish are gathering 
together, for they will most certainly come for 
their supper, you may take a pipe of tobacco; and 
then, in with your three rods !" Now w^hy that 



MY TOBACCO 251 

pipe of tobacco? There is a certain interval to 
be filled in ; a period in which it would be disas- 
trous to say anything or do anything. It is just 
such a period as my friend and I spent in the 
arm-chairs — silently, awkwardly facing each 
other. The most convinced anti-tobacconist will 
scarcely deny that here again — whilst the fish 
are gathering round the ground-bait — the smoker 
has the best of us. At that point Anderson would 
put me to shame. It is more easy for him to 
patiently await the time to whip in the rods than 
it is for me. All this I frankly confess, and any 
honest non-smoker will agree with me. 

Now half the art of life lies in being able on 
occasions to do nothing — and to do it easily. 
Newman found this grace so difficult of acquire- 
ment that he gave it up as a bad job. "He filled 
up,'' says Mozley, "his whole time, taxed his 
whole strength, and occupied his whole future. 
He reduced retrospection to a very narrow com- 
pass, to a few faces, to flowers on a bank or a 
wall, to a fragrance or a sound. He never took 
solitary walks if he could help it. He would not 
be alone and left to his own thoughts when he 
w^as neither studying nor writing nor praying." 
Darwin was as bad. His one defect was an utter 
incapacity for idleness. "I wish," writes his 
wife, "I wish he could smoke a pipe or ruminate 
There is such a thing as a genius 



252 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

for repose. It is a great thing for a man to be 
the captain of his soul; to have every faculty 
under command; and to be able to drop anchor 
and be perfectly at ease when nothing is to be 
gained by continued activity. 

Here, then, is the problem — how to be still? I 
have confessed that there are moments when I 
envy my friend Anderson with his pipe. It 
strikes me as being a fine thing, a very fine thing, 
to be able to do nothing so naturally. I would 
give half my goods and chattels to be able to wait 
under the willows, for the bream to come round 
the ground-bait, with the perfect self-possession 
of old Izaak Walton. And I would give more 
than half to be able to sit in the arm-chair in 
easy, restful silence, never breaking that silence 
until the exact moment had arrived. But I con- 
fess that it is not in me. 

Yet, I confess, too, that, although I envy the 
smoker, I am still a non-smoker. I once learned 
swimming. In the baths I saw boys with blad- 
ders, belts, and all kinds of similar contrivances. 
I envied them their ability to keep afloat. Turn- 
ing to my swimming-master, I said : 

"Lend me a belt like that, and I shall soon 
learn to swim." 

"If you once use a belt like that, you will never 
learn to swim," he replied firmly. I stood cor- 
rected. 



MY TOBACCO 253 

The application is obvious. I wish to swim; 

but it must be without belts and bladders. I 

wish to walk ; but not with crutches. I wish my 

child to count ; but I would not have him always 

count with beads. I shall never be satisfied until 

I can possess my soul in perfect poise and restful- 

ness; until I can do nothing, and do it well, and 

do it easily ; and so ambitious am I that I aspire 

to do it one day without any adventitious aids. 

A woman can be at her ease — ^if you pass her her 

knitting. A man can be still — if you give him his 

pipe. But was the soul made to rest only by 

means of such adventitious aids? Mr. M. J. 

Savage has sung to us of the man who has learned 

to manage without them : 

"I haste no more. 
At dawn or when the day is done, 

The sun comes calmly to his place: 
I've learned the lesson of the sun. 

"I haste no more. 
For Spring and Autumn earth decrees 

The leaves shall bud, the leaves shall fall: 
I've learned the lesson of the trees. 

"I haste no more. 
At flood or ebb as it may be. 

The ocean answers to the moon: 
I've learned the lesson of the sea. 

"I haste no more. 
Whate'er, whoe'er is mine — these must 

On God's ways meet me in God's time: 
I've learned the lesson, and I trust." 



254 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

To-day I look on Anderson with his pipe as I 
once looked at the "little wanton boys that swim 
on bladders," and it may be that, as long as I live, 
he will have the laugh at me. Yet, after all, men 
learned to do nothing, and to do it well, long 
before Sir Francis Drake and Sir Walter Raleigh 
brought the fragrant weed from the golden West ; 
and I am therefore not quite without hope that I 
shall yet be able to possess my soul beneath the 
willows, untortured by a single twinge of rest- 
lessness or impatience, until the ground-bait has 
attracted a perfect shoal of bream. When that 
day comes, I shall laugh at Anderson and his 
pipe. 



VIII 
THE POWDER MAGAZINE 



I HAVE a special fondness for explosive people. I 
can never persuade myself that dynamite got into 
the world by accident. I intolerantly scout the 
theory that the devil built all the volcanoes, and 
that his minions feed their furious fires. I have 
admired an indescribable grandeur in the hurri- 
cane. I have felt the cyclone to be splendid, and 
the tornado to be next door to sublimity. Even 
the earthquake has a glory of its own. And how 
a thunderstorm clears the air ! How deliciously 
sweet my garden smells when the riven clouds 
have passed, and the glittering drops are still 
clinging like pendant gems to the drooping petals 
and the bright green leaves! And, in the same 
way, I have discovered something terribly sub- 
lime in those stormy elements that sweep the 
realm within. 

There was a time when my eyes were closed to 
this side of the glory of God's world. I used to 
think it a dreadful thing for Paul to be cross 
with Barnabas. I thought it shocking if Bar- 

255 



256 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

nabas spoke sharply to Paul. For Barnabas was 
"a good man and full of the Holy Ghost/' And 
Paul was "a good man and full of the Holy 
Ghost.'' And I thought that so lovely and tran- 
quil a little world had no room for dynamite. 
Till, one day, a thing happened that made me feel 
as though a volcano had burst into eruption at 
my feet! I was thunder-struck! The circum- 
stances are briefly told. Paul and Barnabas had 
just completed one adventurous, triumphant, 
and historic campaign together. Together they 
had crossed the tumbling seas in crazy little 
vessels that would scarcely now be permitted to 
cruise about a river. Together they had trudged, 
singing as they went, along the lonely forest trail 
through the lowlands of Pamphylia. Together 
they had climbed the great pass over the moun- 
tains of Pisidia. Together they had felt the ex- 
hilaration of the heights as they surveyed, shad- 
ing their eyes with their hands, the lands that 
they had come to conquer. Together, at the risk 
of their lives, they had forded streams in full 
tumultuous flood ; together they had known hun- 
ger and thirst; together they had shared un- 
speakable hardships ; together they had faced the 
most terrible privations. Together they had 
been deified one day, and together they had been 
stoned the next. Together they had made known 
the love of Christ in the great capitals ; together 



THE POWDER MAGAZINE 257 

they had rejoiced over their converts; and then, 
together, they had made that never-to-be-forgot- 
ten return journey. I have often tried to imagine 
their emotions, as, on the homeward way, they 
came in sight of one city after another that they 
had visited in coming. In coming, those cities 
were heathen capitals and nothing more. In 
returning, there were churches there and fond 
familiar faces! And what meetings those must 
have been in each city when the members again 
welcomed Paul and Barnabas; when the two 
scarred heroes told the thrilling tale of their 
experiences elsewhere ; and when, in each church, 
ministers and officers were appointed! And, 
leaving a chain of thoroughly organized churches 
behind them across the land, as a ship leaves her 
foaming wake across the waters, the two valiant 
and dauntless companions returned home. How 
all this had welded these two noble souls to- 
gether! They are knit, each to each, like the 
souls of David and Jonathan! 

And now a second campaign is suggested. Bar- 
nabas proposes that they should take with them 
Mark. Mark, who was the nephew of Barnabas, 
had started with them on their former journey; 
but, at the first brush of persecution, he had 
hastily scampered home. Paul instantly vetoes 
the proposal. He will not hear of it. He will 
not have a coward at any price. His soul loathes 



258 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

a traitor. Barnabas insists, but Paul remains 
adamant. "And the contention was so sharp 
between them that they departed asunder the 
one from the other/' and, probably, never met 
again. If I had not been actually present and 
witnessed this amazing explosion with my own 
eyes, I fancy my faith would have staggered. As 
it is, the surprising spectacle only taught me that 
God has left room for dynamite in a world like 
this; and, much as I admired both Paul and 
Barnabas before the outburst, I loved them still 
more when the storm was overpast. 

II 

I have said that I saw this astonishing out- 
burst with my own eyes. That is so, or at least 
so I fancied. For it seemed to me that I was 
honoured with a seat on a committee of which 
both Paul and Barnabas were valued and revered 
members. We all loved them, and treasured 
every gracious word that fell from their lips. 
For "Barnabas was a good man and full of the 
Holy Ghost." And "Paul was a good man and 
full of the Holy Ghost." Now Mark had applied 
to the committee for engagement as a missionary. 
And Barnabas rose to move his appointment. I 
shall never forget the charm and grace with 
which he did it. I could see at a glance that the 
good man was speaking under deep feeling. His 



THE POWDEK MAGAZINE 259 

voice reflected his strong emotion. He reminded 
us that Mark was his relative, and he felt a cer- 
tain heavy responsibility for his nephew^s spirit- 
ual well-being. He trembled, he said, lest he 
should be condemned as one who risked his life 
for the heathen over the seas, but who displayed 
no serious solicitude concerning his own kith and 
kin. He had wept in secret over his young kins- 
man's former treachery. But it had made him the 
more eager to win his soul in spite of everything. 
He was alarmed lest the rejection of his relative 
should lead to his utter humiliation, total exclu- 
sion, and final loss. He admitted with shame 
and grief all that could be alleged against him. 
He had been weighed in the balances and found 
wanting. He had turned his back in the hour 
of peril. But what of that? Had we not all 
our faults and failures? I remember that, as he 
said this, Barnabas glanced round the council* 
table, and looked inquiringly into each face. 
There was moisture in his own bright eyes, and 
each man hung his head beneath that searching 
glance. 

And then, he went on, surely there was some- 
thing admirable in Mark's original venture. He 
had nothing to gain by going. It was his enthusi- 
asm for the cause of Christ that prompted him to 
go. It proved that his heart was in the right 
place. And the very fact that he was anxious to 



260 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

set out again, with a full knowledge of the perils 
before him, proved indisputably that he had sin- 
cerely repented of his earlier unfaithfulness, and 
was eager for an opportunity of redeeming his 
name from contempt. How could we ourselves 
hope for forgiveness unless we were prepared to 
show mercy in a case like this? Once more those 
searchlights swept the faces round the table. 
And then, with wonderful tenderness, Barnabas 
reminded us of the bruised reed that must not 
be broken and of the smoking flax that must not 
be quenched. And, in the name of Him who, 
after His resurrection, found a special place for 
Peter, the disciple who had thrice denied his 
Lord, Barnabas implored us to favour his 
nephew's application. There was a hush in the 
room when the gracious speech was finished. We 
all felt that Barnabas was a good man and full 
of the Holy Ghost. 

Ill 

Then Paul rose. One could see at a glance 
that his whole soul rebelled against having to 
oppose the partner of so many providential 
escapes, the comrade of so many gallant fights. 
The affection of these two for each other was 
very beautiful. Paul admitted frankly that he 
had been deeply touched by the gracious words 
that had fallen from the lips of Barnabas. His 



THE POWDER MAGAZINE 261 

heart leaped up to greet every one of those 
appeals. Each argument met with its echo and 
response in every fibre of his being. For old 
friendship's sake he would dearly like to accede 
to the request of Barnabas. Was it not through 
the influence of Barnabas, and in face of strong 
opposition, that he himself was admitted to the 
sacred service? And because Mark was his old 
friend's nephew he would especially wish to 
entertain the proposal. But we were gathered 
together, he reminded us, in the sacred interests 
of the kingdom of Christ. And for the sake of 
the honour of that kingdom we must be prepared 
to set aside considerations of friendship, and 
even to ignore the tender claims of kinship. The 
friendship of Barnabas was one of earth's most 
precious treasures; but he could not allow even 
that to influence him in a matter in which he felt 
that the integrity of the cause of Christ was at 
stake. The relatives of Barnabas were as dear 
to him as his own kith and kin; but there were 
higher considerations than domestic consider- 
ations. Mark had once — perhaps twice — proved 
himself unequal to the claims of this perilous 
undertaking. He might render excellent and 
valuable service in some other capacity. But for 
this particular enterprise, which required, as 
well as a warm heart, a cool head and a steady 
nerve, Mark was clearly unfitted. He became 



262 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

terror-stricken in the hour of danger. They 
could not afford to run such risks. A defection 
in their own party gave the enemy cause to blas- 
pheme.. It exposed them to ridicule and con- 
tempt. The heathen cried out that these men 
were prepared to follow Christ so long as Christ 
never went near a cross. The Jews, who had 
themselves suffered for their faith, laughed at a 
new doctrine from which its very teachers might 
be scared and intimidated. And the young con- 
verts would find it immensely more difficult to 
endure persecution for the gospePs sake if they 
beheld one of the missionaries turn his back in 
the hour of peril. He had long ago forgiven 
Mark, he said, for his former failure. Indeed, he 
scarcely recognized any need for forgiveness. He 
felt sorry for his young friend at the time, and 
he felt sorry for him still. Mark was a gentle 
spirit, not made for riots and tumults; and, in 
the shock of opposition, he was easily frightened. 
His love for Christ, and his zeal for service, were 
very admirable; and they all loved him for his 
simplicity and sincerity and enthusiasm. But, 
knowing his peculiar frailty, they must not 
expose either him or the cause to needless risk. 
The welfare of Mark, and the reputation of the 
Cross, were very dear to him; and he would on 
no account whatever agree to submit the delicate 
soul of Mark to a strain that it had already 



THE POWDER MAGAZINE 263 

proved itself unable to bear, or the gospel to an 
unnecessary risk of being brought into disfavour 
and contempt. He implored the committee to 
deal wisely and considerately with the subtle 
and delicate and complex character of his young 
friend, and to prize above everything else the 
honour of the gospel. Personally he was quite 
determined that it would be a wicked and unjust 
and unkind thing to expose the soul of Mark to 
such imminent peril, and the Cross of Christ to 
such grave risk of further scandal. He would 
on no account take Mark. The speech was so 
tempered with tenderness, as well as with firm- 
ness and wisdom, that it created a profound im- 
pression. We all felt that Paul was a good man 
and full of the Holy Ghost. 

IV 

Neither would yield. How could they? Each 
had heard a voice that was higher and more im- 
perative than the voice of sentiment or of friend- 
ship. It is ridiculous to say that they should 
have "made it up'' for old sake's sake, or for the 
gospel's sake, or for any other sake. Barnabas 
believed, in the very soul of him, that it would 
be wrong to leave Mark behind. And Paul be- 
lieved, in the very soul of him, that it would be 
wrong to take Mark with them. You cannot 
bridge a gulf like that. Each tried to convince 



264 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

the other. The contention became sharp but 
futile. And they parted. And I, for one, honour 
them. They could not, as "good men and full of 
the Holy Ghost/' have done anything else. I do 
not pretend to understand why God has made 
room in the world for earthquakes and volcanoes. 
I see them tear up the valleys and hurl down 
the mountains; and I stand bewildered and 
astonished. But there they are! I do not pre- 
tend to understand these other explosive forces. 
But there they are! And I, for one, love both 
Paul and Barnabas the more that they will 
neither of them sacrifice, even for friendship's 
sweet sake, the interests of the cause of Christ. 

In my New Zealand days I knew two men, 
almost aged. I have told the story in detail in 
Mushrooms on the Moor. These two men had 
been bosom friends. Time after time, year after 
year, they had walked up to the house of God in 
company. In the days of grey hairs they came 
to differ on important religious questions, and 
could no longer conscientiously worship beneath 
the same roof. They met; they tried to discuss 
the debateable doctrine; but their hearts were 
too full. Side by side they walked for miles 
along lonely roads on a clear, frosty, moonlight 
night, in the hope that presently a discussion 
would be possible. I walked in reverent silence 
some distance ahead of them. But speech never 



THE POWDER MAGAZINE 265 

came. Grief had completely paralysed the vocal 
powers, and the eyes were streaming with an- 
other eloquence. They wrung each other's hands 
at length, and parted without even a "Good- 
night." They still differ; they still occasionally 
meet; they still love. They even admire each 
other for being willing to sacrifice old fellowship 
for conscience sake. There is something here 
with which the more flippant advocates of church 
union do not reckon. Paul and Barnabas are 
good men, both of them, and full of the Holy 
Ghost. But they cannot agree. Face to face, 
the contention becomes very sharp. They wisely 
part. As I say, I do not pretend to understand 
why God left so many explosive forces lying 
about His world ; but there they are ! 



It all turned out wonderfully well, as it was 
bound to do. Barnabas, whatever became of him, 
made a hero of Mark. He became perfectly lion- 
hearted. "Bring Mark with thee," wrote Paul 
to Timothy, when he himself was awaiting his 
martyr-death at Rome. "Bring Mark with thee, 
for he is profitable to me for my ministry." And 
I like to think that when Peter felt that the time 
had come to put on permanent record the holy 
memories of earlier Galilean days, he employed 
Mark to pen the precious pamphlet for him. 



266 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

Peter and Mark understood each other. And as 
they worked together on that second "gospel/^ 
they had many a tearful talk of the way in which, 
long before, they had each played the coward's 
part, and had each been greatly forgiven and 
graciously restored. To those of us who look up 
to Paul and Barnabas as to a terrific height 
above us, it is splendid to know that there is 
room for Peter and for Mark in the heart that 
loves and in the service that ennobles. 



IX 

THE BENEDICTION 

It is not often that a minister sits among his 
people listening to the voice of another. That 
rare privilege fell to my lot last Sunday; and 
how thoroughly I enjoyed it my friends know 
very well. The hymns, the prayers, the sermon 
— each part of the service in its turn — seemed 
wonderfully refreshing and uplifting; and the 
Benediction seemed the climax of the whole. The 
feeling may have arisen from that sweet sadness 
which invariably enfolds the last moments of all 
earthly pleasures ; or it may have been that there 
really is a grandeur in those stately cadences 
that had never before so powerfully impressed 
me. However that may be, I shall never forget 
that hushed and solemn moment in which, the 
congregation standing with bowed heads, the 
minister pronounced those sublime simplicities, 
those simple sublimities. Like the breath of 
heaven there fell upon us those ancient but 
wealthy words : 

The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, and the 
love of Gody and the communion of the Holy 
Ghost, he with you all. Amen. 

267 



268 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

A moment's stillness followed; and then we 
quietly turned homewards; but, whichever way 
we went, the tender grace of that beauteous 
benediction seemed to follow and enfold us. 



I suppose that the simple words derive their 
grandeur from the fact that they state, with the 
grace of the poet rather than with the technique 
of the theologian, the mystery of the Trinity. It 
is an awful theme, and suited only to just such a 
setting. There are things which, like the song 
of the lark and the perfume of the violet, do not 
lend themselves to definition. When I let my 
mind play about that stupendous thought which 
is embalmed in the phraseology of the Benedic- 
tion, I fancy that my modest ventures in photog- 
raphy have given me a hint or two towards its 
comprehension. For my camera Ijas taught me 
that there are three ways of looking at every- 
thing. They are — 

1. The Way of my Right Eye. 

2. The Way of my Left Eye. 

3. The Way of my Camera. 

That the way of the right eye differs from the 
way of the left eye can be demonstrated by the 
simple process of closing each of the eyes in turn, 
and examining the object first with the one eye 
only and then with the other eye only. Each sees 



THE BENEDICTION 269 

the thing from its own angle. The camera cannot 
adjust itself to both eyes, so it effects a compro- 
mise. Its single lens sees things as they would 
appear to me if I had but one eye, and that one 
eye in the middle of my forehead. But, obviously, 
no one of these three ways is, in itself, the correct 
way of looking at a thing. As I reflect thus, 
along comes my more fortunate friend with a 
stereoscopic camera. He takes, not one view 
which is a compromise between my right eye's 
view and my left eye's view, but two views — the 
view of the object as my right eye sees it and the 
view of the object as my left eye sees it. Then 
he places the two views behind glasses, which, 
applied to my two eyes, blend the two into one, 
just as my eyes are accustomed automatically to 
do. The result is that the picture is real and 
vivid and lifelike. I tried, once upon a day, to 
think of God the Father, and to think of God 
the Son, and to think of God the Holy Spirit. 
But I became hopelessly confused. And then I 
heard the voice of Jesus declare that "He that 
hath seen Me hath seen the Father," and I under- 
stood that in the person of Jesus I have the 
stereoscopic view of God. 

II 

And then, as I walked home from church, with 
the music of the Benediction ringing in my ears, 



270 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

it seemed like a declaration that all the treasure 
of heaven is for each mortal on earth. "The 
grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of 
God, and the communion of the Holy Ghost, he 
with you all/' The best things are indivisible. 
If you divide material treasure between a thou- 
sand people, each has a thousandth part; but if 
you divide the heavenly treasure between a thou- 
sand people, each has the whole. I am very fond 
of that fine passage in the Compleat Angler in 
which the gentle author tells of the delight that 
he found in thousands of things that did not 
strictly belong to him. The actual owner of the 
estate on which he fished was worried to death 
by vexatious disputes and threatened litigation ; 
but, as for Izaak, he was in the seventh heaven. 
He strolled down through the leafy woods and 
shady groves; he crossed the fragrant meadows 
in which he saw a tousle-haired schoolboy gather- 
ing lilies and a rosy-cheeked lassie with an arm- 
ful of cowslips ; he cast his line into the sparkling 
stream and saw the great silvery trout flash 
through the laughing waters; and he was in bliss 
without alloy. "As I sat thus,'' he says, "joying 
in my own happy condition, and pitying this poor 
rich man that owned this and many other pleas- 
ant groves and meadows about me, I did thank- 
fully remember that my Saviour said that the 
meek possess the earth. Anglers and meek, quiet- 



THE BENEDICTION 271 

spirited men are free from those high and restless 
thoughts which corrode the sweets of life, and 
they therefore enjoy what others possess and 
enjoy not/' Is it not true that, in the best things, 
the whole is for each? The truest treasure is 
indivisible. What is it that Miss Ella Wheeler 
Wilcox sings in her poem, "All for Me"? 

"The world grows green on a thousand hills — 

By a thousand willows the hees are humming. 
And a million birds by a million rills 

Sing of the golden season coming. 
But, gazing out on the sun-kissed lea. 

And hearing a thrush and a bluebird singing, 
I feel that the summer is all for me. 

And all for me the joys it is bringing. 

"All for me the bumble-bee 

Drones his song in the perfect weather; 
And, just on purpose to sing to me. 

Thrush and bluebird come here together. 
Just for me, in red and white, 

Bloom and blossom the fields of clover; 
And all for me and my delight 

The wild wind follows and plays the lover." 

Yes, all for me, all for me, all for me! That was 
what I caught myself saying to myself as I 
walked home from church in the sunshine of that 
spring Sunday morning. The grace of our Lord 
Jesus Christ — all for me, all for me! And the 
love of God — all for me, all for me! And the 
communion of the Holy Ghost — all for me, all 



272 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

for 7ne; "The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and 
the love of God, and the communion of the Holy 
Ghost, be with you all." Yes, with us all — it 
was all for me, all for me! 

Ill 

This was good, but better was to come. For, 
just as I came in sight of the golden wattle be- 
side my own gate, another thought arrested me. 
Looking at the Benediction once again, I saw 
that it is not so much the Father and the Son 
and the Holy Ghost who are to be with me ; but 
the grace of the Saviour and the love of the 
Father and the communion of the Holy Ghost. 
The service that I have just attended must leave 
its fragrance, that is to say, upon my own spirit. 
It is as though the preacher had said, "You have 
been rejoicing in the inexhaustible grace of 
Jesus : now be yourself gracious I You have been 
in the presence of God, and God is love : now be 
yourself tender-hearted and affectionate! You 
have enjoyed the radiant fellowship of the Holy 
Spirit: now be yourself companionable and in- 
spiring!" I remember to have read of a Valley 
of Roses. It is so extensive, and the lovely 
odours hang so heavily about the beauteous vale, 
that the traveller who passes through it carries 
the perfume on his person for days afterwards, 
and people look knowingly at each other as he 



THE BENEDICTION 273 

enters the room. They know without being told 
that he has been in the Valley of Roses. As I 
projected my memory back to that tense closing 
moment of the service I had left, it seemed as 
though the Benediction was an exhortation. It 
called upon me to share with others the boon 
that had been mine, by carrying with me the fra- 
grance in which I had been revelling. It seemed, 
as I contemplated my restless spirit and my 
dusty heart, a mere counsel of perfection; and 
yet, and yet — 

"A Persian fable says: One day 
* A wanderer found a piece of clay 
So redolent of sweet perfume 
Its odour scented all the room. 
'What art thou?* was the quick demand, 
'Art thou some gem from Samarcand? 
Or spikenard rare in rich disguise? 
Or other costly merchandise?' 
'Nay, I am but a piece of clay!' 
'Then whence this wondrous sweetness, pray?' 
'Friend, if the secret I disclose, 
I have been dwelling with a rose!' " 

I fancy that is what the preacher meant. If, 
within the house of the Lord, I had been really 
enjoying the society of that holy Saviour who is 
Himself the fountain of all grace, surely I must 
thereafter be myself more gracious! If, during 
those hallowed moments, I had gazed upon the 
Love that will not let me go, surely I must there- 



274 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HILL 

after be myself more loving! If, there in the 
sanctuary, I had revelled in the fellowship of the 
Comforter, surely there can be no soul beneath 
the stars to whom I can henceforth deny my own 
sympathy and friendship. Yes, that was what 
the preacher meant — "^^The grace of the Lord 
Jesus Christy and the love of God, and the com- 
munion of the Holy Ghost, he with you all. 
AmenJ' And as I put my hand to the latch of 
my own gate, I involuntarily murmured ^'Amen/' 
a second time. 



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